


And I Burst Into Fire

by scouringsandstone



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Arguing, Biphobia, Comfort/Angst, Daddy Issues, Drinking, Eating, Homophobia, Insults, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Touch-Starved, discussions about consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 50,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scouringsandstone/pseuds/scouringsandstone
Summary: Sullivan behaves differently around women.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 81
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

Sid mistakes it for politeness at first.

Not that Sid knows what politeness looks like on Sullivan, not exactly. The new Inspector is never polite to him - in fact, he's usually downright hostile - so perhaps it isn't politeness at all, perhaps it's just awkwardness. 

Whatever it is, Sid has noticed that Sullivan behaves differently around women. 

Sid watches him. He watches the uncomfortable shift of Sullivan's body whenever Lady F brushes past him, the way he tips his hat, gaze averted, every time a woman talks to him, as though prolonged eye contact might be considered improper. 

Sid can't understand it himself; that primness, that propriety. It irritates him. 

Inspector Sullivan's arrival is the talk of the village, and with looks like that, Sullivan could have his pick. God knows, half the female population of Kembleford have been speculating about Sullivan's marital status. If Sid were in his position, he'd capitalise on that new-found attention, but instead Sullivan wastes it, shying away as if he's taken a vow of celibacy. Which is all well and good for the likes of Father Brown and Bishop Talbot, but Sullivan isn't a member of the clergy. From what Sid has heard, Sullivan isn't even religious.

It doesn't appear to be abstinence either. On the few occasions where Sullivan has joined the rest of them at functions, Sid has seen him drink and smoke. And if he doesn't subscribe to the belief that sex outside of marriage is wrong, then really, what's stopping him? 

Some men lack confidence, Sid supposes. Though if Sullivan is one of them, he certainly doesn't let it impact on any other aspect of his life. 

At work, Sullivan is every bit the arrogant Inspector. He's stubborn and rude and bloody-minded, and he seems to take an almost sadistic pleasure in chasing Sid and the Father away from his crime scenes, insisting that he knows best. If anything, Sid would describe him as arrogant. Self-assured. 

So in the absence of a better explanation, Sid chalks up Sullivan's odd behaviour to a some sort of misguided attempt at etiquette.

It isn't long before something happens to blow that theory out of the water. 

One hot afternoon in May, as Sid is working on the Rolls in front of the presbytery while he waits for Lady F to finish discussing plans for the summer fete. He is topping up the oil for the water pump, sweating in the heat of the midday sun, when he hears the low rumble of an engine approach. He looks up just in time to see the Wolseley draw up, grinding to a halt alongside him. 

"All right, where is he?" Sullivan calls, climbing out and adjusting his cuffs. Poised and pristine, even in this weather. 

Sid straightens himself up from where he has been hunched over the bonnet. "Good afternoon to you too, Inspector."

"Don't start. Just tell me where he is."

"Where who is?" 

"You know who." 

"Well, as you're here, I could probably hazard a guess, yeah."

"Is he inside?"

"I dunno." Sid grins. It's too easy, winding Sullivan up. "I'm not his keeper."

Sullivan scowls. "No, I didn't think you'd know, somehow."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Because Father Brown has been meddling in one of my cases again."

"Oh," says Sid. "I s'pose you'd better go and look for him yourself then, hadn't you?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Carter. Helpful as ever."

Sid laughs, cleaning his hands off on a piece of old cloth, before swiping his forearm across his brow. Even with his uniform jacket strewn across the front seat, his sleeves rolled up, and the top three buttons of his shirt unfastened, the heat is getting to him. How Sullivan always manages to look so unaffected and well put-together is a mystery. It's like the man has evolved beyond the need to sweat. 

Sid slings the rag into the footwell and closes the driver's side door. When he looks up again, Sullivan is still standing there, eyes on him, frowning at his unbuttoned shirt, as though Sid should somehow be immune to the heat too. Under Sullivan's scrutiny, Sid feels his pulse quicken and his skin grow impossibly hotter. 

"What?" he asks, annoyed. 

Sullivan doesn't answer, only jumps slightly, looking up at Sid's face again. 

"We can't all hide away in our nice, cool offices," Sid continues. "Some of us actually have to work for a living."

Sid is expecting a sarcastic remark about some of the less honest means by which he earns his money, but Sullivan doesn't rise to the bait. There is a momentary flash of something unidentifiable in Sullivan's eyes before he looks away completely, swallowing hard. 

"Just tidy yourself up, for pity's sake, Carter," he spits, turning towards the presbytery. "You look a mess."

For a moment, Sid is so taken aback at Sullivan's outburst that he doesn't register the twitch of Sullivan's jaw, the way his voice quavers. He watches Sullivan walk away, unexpectedly stung by his words.

This wasn't their usual banter - teasing, with a bit of an edge. This was cruel. It takes Sid a few seconds to realise that Sullivan was lashing out. Not angry, but panicked. Defensive. As though he had been caught in the act, except the only thing Sid had caught him doing was-

Oh. 

Well, that certainly puts a different spin on things. 

The intensity of Sullivan's gaze, the way his eyes had roved over Sid's exposed chest... What if Sullivan wasn't looking at him with disapproval at all?

Sid's stomach flips. 

That would explain Sullivan's alarm. It would also go a long way to explaining why Sid has never seen him looking at women... 

Sid starts down the path after him. He doesn't know what he plans to say, whether he wants to say anything at all, but by the time he reaches the garden, it's too late. Mrs. M has already opened the door, and Sullivan steps inside, disappearing from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Domino by Bing Crosby (just a touch of your hand and I burst into fire)


	2. Chapter 2

After that, Sullivan stops looking. 

It isn't just that he's careful not to stare, or that he's careful not to let Sid catch him staring; Sullivan doesn't look at Sid at all.

Every time Sid walks into the station, Sullivan hurries into his office and closes the door. On the odd occasion that Sid tags along to a crime scene, hanging back to finish off his cigarette while Father Brown talks his way under the cordon, Sullivan skulks off to a quiet corner and busies himself scrutinising the pages of his notebook.

The funny thing is, if it wasn't for Sullivan's even more suspicious behaviour, Sid might have started to doubt his version of what happened at the presbytery. 

After all, it does seem unlikely, doesn't it? Sullivan fancying him...

Putting aside Sullivan's apparent irritation every time he sees Sid, and their constant bickering, Sid finds it hard to reconcile Sullivan's choice of career with the idea that he might have a preference for men. How can someone who swore to uphold the law, who takes such pleasure in enforcing petty rules, still believe in what he's doing when his own desires are illegal? 

It should be laughable, the hypocrisy of it. It should make Sid's blood boil.

But when he thinks about Sullivan, so afraid of being found out that he has taken to avoiding Sid completely, all Sid feels is a dull ache of sympathy in his chest. 

He knows what that's like; that fear, that self-denial. 

It took Sid a long time to understand his own feelings, let alone accept them.

He had always fancied women, and when he was younger he'd assumed that precluded him from fancying men too. You were one thing or the other, as far as Sid had known. He'd heard about the kind of men who wanted other men, through schoolyard insults, and later through the scandalised whispers of the villagers. It wasn't something Sid wanted to be. It wasn't something anyone _wanted_ to be.

So if he'd started to notice the way Eddie Gerard's arms looked in a tee-shirt when they'd gone fishing down at the riverside together, if he'd privately enjoyed the weight of his friends on him as they'd tussled in the grass, those long, hot summers towards the end of the war, well then he'd kept his mouth shut. 

And because girls were just as nice to look at, Sid had managed to avoid confronting his feelings for longer than most. 

Maybe Sullivan doesn't have that option.

If Sid is right about him, and Sullivan isn't interested in women at all, then how would Sullivan go about meeting someone? When would he get the opportunity? 

There are places Sid knows of, where men can go to get what they need. The old railway tunnel near the woods, the public conveniences on the outskirts of Standing. Sid has never visited either of those spots - too risky - and he can't imagine Sullivan would dare consider it, because however hard it is for Sid, it must be ten times harder for Sullivan.

The police check those places. There are local bobbies who stop in on their beats, and it isn't unheard of for an undercover policeman to be deployed, pretending to be a homosexual in order to trick other men into trying it on. If Sullivan were ever caught at that sort of place, his life would be as good as over. 

The ache in Sid's chest sharpens into a painful stab at that.

It must be lonely, being in Sullivan's position. What does he have to get by on? The odd affair with someone discreet? Less than that? 

It makes Sid reconsider Sullivan's aversion to being touched. Perhaps it's neither etiquette nor revulsion, perhaps Sullivan has just grown so accustomed to being alone that he isn't used to anyone touching him at all.

That's the thought that stays with Sid over the following days, each time he replays that moment at the presbytery in his head, remembering the words they'd exchanged and the look in Sullivan's eye...

He thinks of how desperate Sullivan must be just to get a good look at a man, to drink in the sight of him, without fear of repercussions. How badly Sullivan must need someone to touch him.

Sid could oblige. 

He's considered it before. Of course he has; Sullivan is a handsome bloke and Sid is only human. When the two of them had first been introduced, Sid had given Sullivan a quick once-over and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't wondered what it would feel like to get his hands on the man. 

But he'd quickly dismissed any real hopes of anything happening between them. Sullivan had seemed to take an instant dislike to him, and Sid had no reason beyond wishful thinking to suspect that Sullivan might be interested in men anyway.

How was he supposed to tell?

Maybe in hindsight there might have been more to their bickering; an undercurrent of something urgent, something dangerous simmering just beneath the surface, but Sid couldn't have known that at the time. He often feels a frisson of excitement when he's provoking someone; that doesn't mean to say it goes both ways. 

Now though... Knowing that it might be a possibility, Sid can't seem to _stop_ thinking about it.

Stray thoughts cross his mind at the most inopportune moments. A lapse of concentration while he's ferrying Lady F around that results in him nearly mounting the grass verge at the side of the road. His mind wandering when he's in the presbytery kitchen, pouring tea, causing him to miss the cup and scald his fingers (and worse, ruin one of Mrs. M's hand-crocheted doilies). 

He does his best to stave them off, to keep his mind occupied with lists of chores, or images of pin-up girls from his favourite magazines, but there is only so much he can take. 

Alone in the caravan at night, Sid gives in and allows himself to imagine it: how it would feel to touch Sullivan, to kiss him, to press him up against the wall of his office and mess up that ridiculous, immaculate suit of his. Sid can picture the way Sullivan's eyebrows would draw together, almost pained, as Sid dragged his fingers down his body. He can hear the breathless, needy sounds Sullivan would make. 

Where it felt wrong before, it doesn't now. Sullivan wants him, or at least Sid suspects he does. Sid wouldn't be making unwanted advances. No, Sullivan would ask for it - _beg_ for it - and Sid can't stop the tide of arousal that washes over him at the prospect of being the one to give Sullivan exactly what he needs. 

It's only after the third morning in a row of waking up flushed and guilty that Sid decides something must be done about it. 

It's going to be a test, that's all. An experiment, to get confirmation that he hasn't misinterpreted Sullivan's looks. 

He'd bet good money that he isn't imagining things, but still, he can't confront Sullivan directly. What if he's got it all wrong?

It has happened before. Situations where Sid has misread the signals, made a move, and nearly been punched for his efforts. Luckily, those times have been few and far between, and he has managed to play it off as a joke, relying on his reputation to protect him. After all, with so many women and even the occasional angry husband to testify to what a womaniser he is, who'd believe he liked men? 

Sullivan doesn't have that luxury. His behaviour would be all too easy to pick apart if there was even the slightest hint that he had those kind of tendencies. Sid needs to tread carefully. He needs to ensure he gets Sullivan alone.

So he waits, bides his time until the right opportunity presents itself.

That moment comes over breakfast one morning, a week or so later, when they are gathered around the kitchen table in the presbytery. 

"Mrs. McCarthy," Father Brown begins, taking a bite of his buttered toast and smiling sweetly at her. "Are your errands taking you anywhere in the vicinity of the police station today?"

"Well, perhaps later on this afternoon when I'll be calling into Mrs. Gale's. Her son has the chickenpox, so I'm taking them some stew, and I suppose their house isn't very far from the station."

"Then would you be so kind as to drop these into the Inspector on the way?" he asks, gesturing to a brown folder to the right of his plate. 

"What are they?"

"Some documents that I think Inspector Sullivan will find very useful in the Roe case."

"I'll go," Sid pipes up. They both turn to look at him, so he adds: "What? I've got to get some food in later. Bakery's near the station."

Mrs. M frowns doubtfully, but all the Father says is, "Thank you, Sid," as he hands the file over. 

"Just don't go looking at any of the contents," Mrs. M tells him. 

"Would I ever?"

"Yes, you most certainly would! That's why I'm telling you not to."

"All right, all right," says Sid, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "You have my word."

"Well, I'm not sure _that_ means very much," Mrs. M continues, but Sid is glad she's leapt to the wrong conclusion. _Up to no good_ is a better and safer assumption than _desperate to get a moment alone with Inspector Sullivan._

"Right, better get going," Sid says, pushing back his chair and swiping an extra piece of toast for the road. 

He's out of the door before he has to field any further questions from either of them, heading off in the direction of the station, and if he happens to stop into the outhouse to comb his hair and adjust his shirt along the way, then nobody else needs to know about it. 

The reception area is quiet when Sid arrives, with only Sergeant Goodfellow manning the front desk, filling out paperwork, and some subdued singing coming from the direction of the cells. Goodfellow looks up, setting down his pen, when he hears Sid approach.

"'Mornin', Mr. Carter."

"All right?" Sid props himself up against the counter on his elbows. "Sullivan in?"

"He's in his office."

"Can I take him this?" Sid asks, waving the folder. "The Father sent me, told me to make sure Sullivan gets it in person. Something about the Roe case?"

Goodfellow purses his lips. "Follow me," he says, getting up and leading Sid over to the door. 

Goodfellow knocks twice in quick succession, then opens it before Sullivan gets the chance to respond, peering around the frame, and announcing: "Sid Carter's here to see you, sir."

Deciding to adopt Goodfellow's tactics, Sid pushes his way inside before Sullivan can protest, and Goodfellow closes the door behind them. 

Sullivan sits up ramrod straight in his leather chair. "Carter."

"Sullivan."

"Unlike you to walk into a police station voluntarily." 

Sid huffs out a laugh. Apparently Sullivan's go-to response when he's panicked is to insult him, and Sid must admit that he gets a funny sort of kick out of it. 

"The Father wanted me to give you this," he says, taking a few steps towards Sullivan. 

"What is it?"

"I dunno, something to do with the Roe case." 

When he draws level with Sullivan's desk, Sid leans against the edge of it, half sitting, half standing, and watches Sullivan's eyes flit down to where his thighs are pressed to the wood, spreading slightly with the pressure. He still can't be one hundred percent sure whether it's disapproval or interest, but Sullivan visibly swallows before forcing his gaze back towards the file. 

"Well, hand it over then," Sullivan snaps, holding out an expectant hand. 

"Here."

As Sid passes Sullivan the folder, he stretches out his fingers, stroking the back of Sullivan's hand. Not an accidental brush, but an unmistakable caress, and Sullivan shivers, before snatching his arm away like he's been burned. 

"Right, thank you, Mr. Carter. Will that be all?" Sullivan's voice is tense and clipped.

Sid licks his lips, watching the tension in the set of Sullivan's jaw, the vein throbbing in his temple. He won't look up now, won't meet Sid's eyes. He is staring resolutely at a piece of paper in front of him.

"Yep," says Sid. 

"Then I trust you can see yourself out? I'm very busy." Sullivan still sounds shaken, and as much as Sid enjoys teasing him, he has no wish to be cruel. 

"Since you asked so nicely..."

Sid pushes up off the desk. It could be a trick of the light, but Sid thinks he can see a thin sheen of sweat forming on Sullivan's upper lip as he turns to leave. He closes the door to Sullivan's office behind him, feeling breathless, giddy. 

And if he wasn't sure before, he is now. 


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Sid sees Sullivan, it's the day of the fete. 

Sid has been killing time perusing the stalls out on the village green, sampling some of the food and having a couple of goes at the coconut shy, while he waits for Lady F to finish helping with the raffle.

According to the sign pitched outside, the cake competition is being held in the marquee this year, so Sid ducks in to try his luck snatching a few slices of Mrs. M's lemon drizzle cake. He's had his eye on it ever since he saw it cooling on top of the stove in the presbytery kitchen, but Mrs. M had been guarding it too closely then.

Inside the tent, a series of stands line the linen walls, and there is a long table set up at the back, which has been draped in a gingham cloth and covered with elaborately decorated cakes. Little name cards have been placed in front of each one, and Sid assumes this must be the competition. He is about to go over and find out, when his focus is diverted.

Beside the table stands Sullivan. He wearing his light grey suit - the one he only wears for formal occasions - and looking distinctly uncomfortable as he talks to Mrs. Hunter from the WI. 

Sid works his way towards them, pausing to buy a Belgian bun from one of the other stalls on the way, in order to avoid looking suspicious. The bustling crowd in the marquee grants him relative anonymity, but he still stops a safe distance away.

He needs to talk to Sullivan, but not today, not anywhere so public.

So Sid listens instead. He is just close enough to be within earshot of Sullivan's conversation with Mrs. Hunter, and from what Sid is able to make out, Sullivan has been sent by his superiors to be the face of the Kembleford constabulary, but somewhere along the line, one of the old dears has managed to rope him into being on the panel of judges, and Sullivan does not look pleased about it.

Sid takes a bite of his bun and does his best to hold back a laugh. 

A few other old ladies are waiting nearby, and as soon as Mrs. Hunter wanders off, they pounce, surrounding Sullivan, pointing to their entries and asking for his assessments. There are a couple of younger women too - women more Sullivan's age - who approach him on the pretense of discussing their cakes, but Sid can see from the way they look at him that it isn't his opinion they're interested in. 

If Sullivan can see it, then he doesn't react. He just nods dutifully and casts an eye over the cakes again, hands clasped tightly behind his back, bobbing on his heels, and carrying enough tension in his shoulders to rival that of a coiled spring. 

One woman in particular seems to have taken a shine to him: a brunette in a green dress, who keeps beaming at him as she talks about her Victoria Sponge. Sid watches her too, takes in her full red lips and her neat ringlets.

She's pretty. Sid certainly wouldn't turn her down, but Sullivan does. Or rather, he gives her a grimace that might pass for a smile to the untrained eye, then pretends to reexamine every single one of the cakes in such detail that it looks as though he's planning to pick the winner based on visual appeal alone.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so pitiful.

It'd be funny if Sid didn't feel an odd pang of envy every time she smiles at him. 

He has no cause to be jealous; Sullivan clearly isn't interested, and Sid could sweet talk a pretty woman into bed any day of the week. But still, something squirms in the pit of his stomach at the sight of them together. 

Sid goes to take another bite of his Belgian bun, but finds he is no longer hungry. 

He should leave before he's seen, so he turns, heads back out of the marquee and into the glaring light of the afternoon sun. He drops the last piece of bun onto the scorched grass, and makes his way back to the car.

In the driver's seat, Sid sits with the door open, watching the waves of heat rise off the bonnet for a while before closing his eyes. The distortion is making his head swim. 

Sullivan can't be interested in that woman. He wasn't fighting the urge to look at her; there was no urge there at all. When you're attracted to someone, it is involuntary. You can't stop your eyes being drawn to the curve of a nice pair of legs or the fit of someone's clothing. 

Sullivan looks at Sid that way.

The only discomfort Sullivan feels around him seems to stem from thinking that he isn't allowed to look. If Sullivan knew that it was safe, that Sid _wanted_ him to look, would he indulge? Would he stare openly?

Sid thinks about letting Sullivan watch him undress. He could push Sullivan back into a chair and stand over him while he took in the sight of him, committing every last detail to memory. He thinks about Sullivan's hands hot on his hips, pulling him closer, and the desperate sounds he would make.

Sid is still thinking about it some indeterminate time later, when Lady Felicia collapses into the backseat of the Rolls, adjusting the straps of her shoes as she settles, and startling him.

"I thought it was never going to end," she says. "That's the last time I let Mrs. M talk me into announcing the raffle numbers. They had almost as many prizes as they had tickets."

Sid sits up, pulling on his gloves and donning his hat. "That bad?"

"Worse."

He turns the key in the ignition, holding in the starter. "Ready to get out of here?" 

"More than."

Outside, the last of the parishioners are filtering out of the tent and onto the green, and stall holders are beginning to pack away their tables. Sullivan stands, facing away from the car, shaking hands with a woman Sid assumes must be one of the winners of the cake competition. 

Sid steals one final glance back at him in the rear-view mirror, before pulling off. 

"You know, the Inspector's a funny one," Lady F begins, following Sid's gaze.

"You're telling me," says Sid.

"I'm serious. You should have seen him earlier."

Something prickles uncomfortably at the topic of watching Sullivan, and Sid shifts in his seat. "Got better things to do than spend my time staring at Inspector Sullivan, thank you very much."

"Well, perhaps _you_ have, but that poor girl from the conveyancer's office in town hadn't. She spent half the afternoon hovering around him and he wouldn't even give her the time of day. Did you see her?"

"Brunette in the green dress?"

"Yes, that snazzy number with the full circle skirt."

"Mm, she was in the marquee with him."

Lady Felicia frowns. "You know, I used to feel quite insulted that he never showed any interest in me, but now I'm starting to wonder..."

Sid feels his heart thud harder in his chest. 

"Wonder what?" he asks, trying to keep his voice level. 

"Are you honestly telling me you haven't noticed anything... odd about Inspector Sullivan?"

He has. Of course he has, but all he says is, "Plenty of things. Want me to reel off a list?"

"Sidney," she admonishes. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"Do I?"

"Oh, come, you must have noticed?"

"Noticed what exactly?"

Lady F slumps back into her seat, frustrated. "Sometimes I can't tell whether you really don't know what I'm talking about, or whether you're deliberately being obtuse."

"Like I said," says Sid, "you'll have to be more specific."

"Fine, but you mustn't breathe a word of it."

"You know me," he says. 

And she does. She knows better than anyone that Sid can keep a secret. He'd like to think he is her confidante. They often share the latest gossip - in the car, or over tea in the drawing room while Monty is away - and it never goes any further. There is an unspoken agreement between them, and Sid has always kept to it. 

All the same, he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head as she asks, "Have you ever noticed the way the Inspector looks at women?"

Sid keeps his focus firmly on the road. A heat creeps up him, spreading across his chest, his neck, and after a moment's hesitation, he says, "The way he _doesn't_ look at them, you mean?"

"So you have noticed!"

Sid shrugs. "Hard not to."

"I'd say he was just ill at ease, but that girl, the conveyancer's secretary. She kept trying to talk to him, and he practically leapt behind the white elephant stall to get away from her."

"Mm," says Sid. 

"If it were just me, I might think I was losing my allure, but that pretty little thing... Come on, Sid, you're a red-blooded man. If that girl had spent the afternoon chasing after you, would you have turned her down?"

"No," Sid says honestly. "I wouldn't."

"My point exactly. So what do you suppose it says about a man who would?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Well, on whether he's married, for one thing."

"Which we already know the Inspector isn't."

"Or whether he's seeing someone..."

"I have it on good authority that Inspector Sullivan is unattached."

"Oh yeah?" Sid asks, trying and failing to keep the curiosity out of his voice. "Whose authority is that, then?"

"His, actually."

Sid peers over his shoulder. "And when did he tell you that?"

"Never you mind. Just answer my question. What would you assume if a man has proven on more than one occasion that he has no interest in women?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"Of course I do, but I'm asking for an objective opinion."

Sid doesn't realise he's going to say it, not until the words are already out of his mouth, and then it's too late. "In that case, I don't think mine's the one you want."

A pause and then Lady Felicia looks up, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror. 

"And what," she inquires steadily, "is that supposed to mean?"

Sid feels his palms prick with sweat inside his leather gloves. "That I'm not impartial."

"Why? Has he said something to you?"

"No..."

"But you've seen something?"

"Do we have to get into this?"

"You can't just mention something like that and expect me to drop the subject, Sidney. Out with it."

Sid shuffles around uncomfortably. "I've just seen him looking, that's all."

"At other men?"

"In a manner of speaking..."

Lady Felicia goes quiet, and Sid risks a quick glance back, just in time to see the moment the penny drops.

"Oh!" she says. "Oh, I say! Looking at _you?_ "

"Well, there's no need to sound so surprised..." Sid mutters, affronted. 

"I'm not! Or rather I am, but only because the Inspector seems to spend half his time trying to arrest you."

"Yeah, well, believe me, I thought I was imagining things too. Kept telling myself I was reading too much into it, but I've caught him at it a few times now."

"Go on..."

He sighs. "All right, so: the other day, at the presbytery... Sullivan comes round to ask a few questions, right? You lot were all inside, planning the fete, and I was out the front, working on the motor. He stops and asks me if I know where the Father is. Only while we're talking, he's looking me up and down, _really_ looking at me, you know? I thought he didn't approve of me being out of uniform, 'cause I'd taken my jacket off in the heat, but when I caught him looking, he got defensive. Bit my head off and scarpered. And then-"

"Then what?"

"Then after that, at the station... I had to drop off some case notes for the Father, and when I passed Sullivan the folder, my hand brushed against his and he _shivered._ "

Lady Felicia raises her eyebrows. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope. Just pulled away from me like I'd stuck a red hot poker on him, and told me to get out."

"And you haven't spoken to him since?"

Sid shrugs ruefully. "He's been avoiding me."

"Well, that would certainly explain a few things."

"Yeah..."

Lady Felicia falls silent then, looking out of the window.

"Senseless, isn't it?" she muses at length. "The way heart wants what it can't have. Like the universe is playing a rotten joke." 

"How d'you mean?"

"Well, all those hopeful women chasing after Inspector Sullivan, not knowing his inclinations. Meanwhile, the Inspector's after you, even if he's barking up the wrong tree."

This time it's Sid's turn to fall quiet. His stomach is churning and he can feel damp patches forming on the fabric of his undershirt, where the sweat is starting to soak through. 

"Sid?" she begins tentatively, after the silence has stretched on for too long. 

"Mm?"

"The Inspector _is_ barking up the wrong tree, isn't he?" When Sid doesn't answer, she reaches forward into the front to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You know you can tell me anything."

Sid sniffs. "Yeah, all right. Maybe he's not barking up the _wrong_ tree, exactly..."

"I see." She frowns. "More... a tree that bows in more than one direction?"

"Er, that's one way of putting it."

"Hmm."

"You surprised now?"

And Sid can tell that she is, just slightly, but when she answers, "Only that we share the same taste in men," he loves her all the more for it. 

It was never fear that prevented him from telling Lady F. Not fear of consequences, anyway. Just that she might view him differently.

He should have known better. He has seen the books she reads, the way her eyes linger for a second too long on a woman when she is admiring her dress. Perhaps eventually Lady Felicia will see fit to confide in him, too, but this seems like enough of a revelation for one day. 

"It's not that surprising. That we both fancy him, I mean," says Sid, hoping to inject some levity into the conversation. "He's a handsome bloke..."

"Oh yes, very handsome. You can excuse all sorts of failings in a man who looks like that."

"That your way of saying he's got a shit personality?"

"Sidney!"

"What?"

But the tension is broken and they are both starting to giggle. It's a relief. Sid doesn't think he could stand there being an atmosphere between the two of them. 

"For goodness' sake," Lady F says, gathering herself. "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do?"

"Well, you can drop a few hints that his feelings might be reciprocated, for a start."

"Easier said than done when he won't let me anywhere near him." 

"Sidney Carter, you are not admitting defeat that easily. It'd be a waste of a perfectly good-looking man, as much as anything else. You just need to get him while he's alone."

"And how," Sid asks, "am I supposed to do that?"

Lady Felicia looks pensive for a minute, before her eyes light up. "I've got it! The charity auction next month. I could invite him along!"

"Place'll be crawling with people," Sid points out reasonably. "No way I'll ever get him alone there."

"Leave it to me," says Lady F, with an alarming sense of resolve. "I'm sure I can come up with something." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend who knows about vintage women's style.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why am I hiding out here again?"

Lady F gives Sid a gentle push back through the doors, and tells him, "So the Inspector doesn't see you."

"He's not even here yet."

"That's the point!"

She disappears back inside and Sid sighs, looking around the small, enclosed courtyard for a place to sit while he waits for Lady F's scheme to unfold. The paving is half green with algae, and there is a crumbling shed in the corner, which Sid seems to remember houses all the bunting and decorations for the fairs, but no seating. He settles for an upturned slice of tree trunk beside the log pile instead and lights up a cigarette. 

The village hall is an old building, with one reception room, one main room at the back, and a couple of storage cupboards full of musty props. The main room has a stage at the far end and Mrs. M and Lady F have spent the better part of the afternoon arranging chairs in orderly rows facing it, in preparation for the auction.

The courtyard is off to the side of the stage, and Sid peers around the open French doors, checking for any sign of Sullivan. 

Nothing yet. 

He isn't sure exactly what Lady F's plan entails, and when he'd asked, she had only grinned and told him to trust her. Which he does, up to a point. 

Still, there is a fluttering, unsettled feeling in his stomach that might have been somewhat alleviated, had he been let in on a few of the details. 

In the distance, Sid thinks he hears the click of a latch. 

He stubs out his cigarette and tilts his head slightly, angling it so that his ear is closer to the French doors. It's a still evening, but Sid isn't sure how well the sound will carry from inside, not until he hears the squeak of shoes crossing the worn wooden floor. 

He peers in again. From his vantage point, he has a reasonable view of the stage and the first three rows of seats.

Sullivan is wandering between them, looking nonplussed. The room is empty apart from him, and seemingly at a loss for what else to do, he makes his way over to the corner where the donations for the auction have been left. 

Masked by the wall, Sid watches him scrutinise the paintings and memorabilia. Sullivan is always elegant, but even more so now. On his own, unaware that he is being watched, the set of his shoulders is more relaxed. He leans up on his toes, examining the details of one of the oil paintings with the same interest he shows in clues at a crime scene, and Sid's eyes are drawn to the perfectly tapered neckline of his hair.

Sid licks his lips.

He has the sudden impulse to touch Sullivan again. Not to test him, not to tease him, just because he wants to. He wants to feel Sullivan's skin, feel the weight of him against his own body.

Whatever this started out as, Sid seems to be in it up to his neck now...

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a second set of footsteps approaching, and he glances across just in time to see Lady F sweeping over to greet Sullivan. 

"Inspector!" she cries. "You made it."

Sullivan's head snaps up like a rabbit's at the sound of a cocked shotgun. 

"Lady Felicia," he says. "Good evening."

"I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Well, I'm... here."

"So you are. And looking very sharp, I might add."

He looks around at the empty hall in confusion for a moment, before asking, "Am I early?"

"Yes, the auction doesn't start until eight, and the guests aren't supposed to start arriving until seven-thirty."

"It said seven o'clock," says Sullivan, eyebrows knitting together in a frown, "on my invitation."

"Did it? Oh, well, I must have written the wrong time in, then. How silly of me." She smiles, looking him up and down. "That suit, is it new?"

Sullivan nods stiffly.

"Did you buy it specially for the occasion?"

"Specially...? No, I-"

"Well, it's very nice," she cuts him off, taking the lapel between her thumb and forefinger and rubbing at the fabric. "The colour complements your eyes."

"I- thank you." 

"You're welcome. You'll be beating them off with a stick by the end of the night."

"Will I?"

He backs up a little way, but for every step Sullivan takes back, Lady Felicia meets him with a step forward.

"Oh, yes. I've quite lost count of the number of young ladies I've had asking after you. I suspect half of them only turned up in the hopes that you'd be here."

"I see," Sullivan says gravely. 

"Seems you're quite the eligible bachelor."

"I'm hardly that-"

"Oh come now, don't be modest. Handsome young man, with good prospects? Not too many of those in Kembleford. In fact it's a mystery why no one has snapped you up already. Still, that adds to the appeal, I suppose. There's something very alluring about mysterious men, don't you find, Inspector?"

Sullivan doesn't seem to have noticed that he's been backing away until his leg collides with one of the fold-out wooden chairs behind him, sending it toppling to the floor with a crash. Sid covers his mouth with his fist to hold back a burst of laughter. 

"Anyway," says Lady Felicia, as Sullivan turns to right the chair, setting it back in line alongside the others, "I really ought to go and wait in the vestibule. Wouldn't do for our guests not to be greeted by the auctioneer when they arrive. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Inspector."

"And you," he says stupidly.

In a very shrewd move, Sid hears Lady F close the door behind her, so that Sullivan won't be able to escape by any other route. 

It works. 

As soon as she's gone, Sullivan takes a few steadying breaths, then, when he's regained enough of his composure, he fumbles around in his pocket until he finds something - his cigarette case - and makes his way towards the French doors.

Sid gets to his feet, hurries to press himself flat against the outside wall, just as Sullivan steps out into the courtyard. 

Considering Sullivan's chosen profession, he really ought to work on his observational skills, because he doesn't spot Sid. He is too preoccupied with fishing about in his pocket again, but he can't seem to find his matchbook. He pats his suit jacket down, once, twice, swears under his breath, and looks as though he's about to resign himself to having to go back inside and search for it it, when Sid finally speaks up.

"Need a light?" 

It startles Sullivan and he wheels around.

"Carter." 

"Sullivan."

"What're you doing out here?"

Sid gestures to his chauffeur's uniform.

"What do you think?" he says. "Making myself scarce until Lady F needs a lift home. Your turn."

"What?"

"What're you doing out here?"

"Oh. I was just getting some air."

"Is that what you call it?" Sid scoffs. "Looked more like running away from where I was standing."

Sullivan narrows his eyes.

"You _saw,_ " he says, somewhere between a question and an accusation. 

"Could hardly miss it. Thought you were gonna set your neck on that chair."

Sullivan presses his lips together, embarrassed, but he doesn't respond. Instead he crosses the courtyard to join Sid, and says, "Tell me... You've worked for Lady Felicia for a long time, haven't you?" 

"Yep," says Sid. He wonders whether Sullivan has sussed them out, realised that Lady F set him up deliberately. Sullivan isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but Sid can't rely on that. 

A distraction, then. Sid reaches into his trouser pocket to retrieve his lighter, flipping it open, and holding it out for Sullivan in silent invitation. Sullivan seems to debate whether or not this is a good idea before he leans in, covering the flame with his hand. He is so close that Sid can smell him. The faint scent of spicy cologne and hair tonic mingling with fresh tobacco. 

"Thank you," Sullivan says, straightening up, and backing off just a little way.

"Anytime."

"So... Lady Felicia..."

"Mm?"

"Is she always so... forward?"

Sid laughs, half relieved and half amused. He takes out another cigarette of his own and lights it up.

"Only when it's someone good-looking," he says.

A flicker of something crosses Sullivan's face at that. "I see."

"You could do a lot worse," says Sid. "Than Lady F, I mean."

"I'm sure I could, but Lady Felicia is a married woman."

"Is that what's stopping you?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Sid echos, with just a trace of mockery in his tone. 

"Some of us have scruples, Carter," says Sullivan.

"Scruples are overrated. You miss out on too much fun."

Sullivan falls silent, looking away, and breathing smoke out into the crisp evening air.

Maybe Sid should forget about what has happened over the last few weeks. If he has misjudged Sullivan, if Sullivan's only objection to sleeping with women genuinely is that he's a man of principle, then Sid could have it wrong after all. The stakes are higher than usual. Sullivan could arrest him, send him to prison for having these sort of tendencies, and there would be no way back from a scandal like that. He should leave Sullivan well alone; that would be the sensible thing to do. 

But Sid has never been very sensible.

"All right," he says, shifting his weight so he is standing closer to Sullivan. "Serious question."

"What?"

"Why aren't you married?"

Sullivan takes a long drag on his cigarette.

"I was always too focused on my career," he answers carefully. 

"Is that right?"

"Yes. Between joining the police, and the outbreak of the war, I never had much time for anything else. Which rather begs the question, why aren't _you_ married, Carter?"

That's unexpected. Sid had assumed Sullivan would panic and change the subject. He hadn't banked on Sullivan goading him back. The thrill of the challenge, of Sullivan playing along with this game, makes Sid's heart thump faster in his chest. 

"Well, you know me, Inspector," he says, exhaling slowly. "Not really the settling down type."

"No. I suppose you're not."

"Confirmed bachelor," says Sid, just to see Sullivan's reaction. "Isn't that what they call it?"

He isn't disappointed. Sullivan's eyes widen for a split-second before he catches himself. 

"I wouldn't know," he says. 

"No? But that must be what you are, too, mustn't it? As you're still not married."

"I already told you-"

"That you were too busy, yeah, yeah, you said. Thing is... You're not busy now, are you? You've been here a few months. That's plenty of time to take a girl out, if you wanted to. And it's not like you're short of offers. I saw that woman at the fete. You've got women throwing themselves at you."

Sullivan bristles. "Have you been spying on me, Carter?"

"I'm right though, aren't I? You're a handsome man. You could have your pick. Yet I've never seen you look twice at a girl. In fact, I've never even seen you look _once._ " 

"I'm not sure what you're trying to insinuate-"

"Yes, you are," Sid cuts in before he can stop the reckless impulse to test his theory to destruction. "I've seen 'em looking, but you're not interested. You jump a foot in the air if a woman so much as looks at you, let alone touches you."

"Carter-"

"And at first I thought you were just being polite, that you really did have _scruples,_ but the other day, at the presbytery, at the station... I wasn't imagining that, was I?" 

Sullivan meets his gaze, a combination of fear and resignation in his eyes. 

"Please," Sullivan begins. "If it ever got out-"

But his voice falters and he can't seem to bring himself to finish the sentence. 

"It's not going to get out," Sid says quickly. "Takes one to know one, Sullivan, and I'd never grass on one of my own."

"What...?"

"You heard me." 

"Are you saying-"

"What do you think I've been saying?" Sid tosses his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel, and leaning dangerously into Sullivan's space. "What do you think I've been _doing,_ trying to get you alone so we can talk? You know, for a detective you're seriously bleedin' slow on the uptake."

"But all the women-"

"Mm, I've slept with a lot of women," Sid admits. "I've slept with a few men, too. If I didn't want you looking, don't you think you'd know about it by now? "

Experimentally, Sid reaches across, taking Sullivan's lapel between his thumb and fingers and rubbing, mimicking the way Lady F had touched him earlier. 

Sullivan's own cigarette falls from his fingers. "Carter-"

"You don't back away when I do it..."

Sullivan releases a shaky breath, says, "No."

Sid slides his hand across to Sullivan's breast pocket, smoothing some non-existent creases out of the fabric.

Sullivan goes still but doesn't shove Sid away, so Sid decides to really push his luck. He slips his hand inside Sullivan's suit jacket, pressing it to the thin cotton of his shirt, stroking him with his thumb. 

Sullivan inhales sharply and closes his eyes. His heart is racing under Sid's palm, his skin hot despite the chill of the evening, and when Sid really starts to fondle his chest, Sullivan gasps. 

"Carter, please." 

"Please what?" 

"We can't do this here. We'll be caught." But even as Sullivan protests, he is leaning into Sid's touch. 

Sid withdraws his hand.

"All right," he says, biting his lip. "Later?"

An almost imperceptible nod. 

"Auction finishes at nine. I should be home by ten. Meet me at the caravan?"

"Yes," Sullivan confirms, in a small, unsteady voice. 

And with that, Sid heads back inside, leaving Sullivan alone in the courtyard looking dazed.


	5. Chapter 5

The grass is tall and wet with dew, soaking the bottoms of Sid's trouser legs as he makes his way back through the fields in the dark. It's late now, a little after ten, and whatever bravado he'd had earlier in the evening has faded with tiredness and too much time to think. 

He isn't convinced Sullivan will be waiting for him at the caravan when he gets there. He can't see any signs of a car in the distance and none of his lanterns have been lit outside.

He'll understand if Sullivan has lost his nerve. It's a risky business in a close-knit community like Kembleford, and of the two of them, Sullivan has the most to lose. Sid won't hold it against him. If he's honest, he's not sure he wouldn't bottle it himself, in Sullivan's position. 

All the same, when he nears the caravan only to find the whole site deserted, he can't help the way his heart sinks. 

He walks up the path to the door, flanked by the chairs and buckets and odd bits of machinery he has accumulated, and gets his key out by the weak glow of his lighter. As he unlocks it, he hears the rustle of grass behind him, and quickly turns around. 

His heart skips a beat and a surge of excitement fills his chest when he sees Sullivan walking up the path behind him. 

"You took your time," Sid says. 

In the darkness, he can just make out Sullivan's indignant scowl. "I walked."

"So did I. Montague Estate's further than the village hall, _and_ I had to drop Lady F off first. Was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

"No... I was waiting down near the woods for you to come back," Sullivan admits. "It's sheltered there. Wouldn't do either of us any good if someone were to see me loitering outside your caravan at this time of night."

The excitement in Sid's chest turns to that dull ache again.

"We'd have to tell 'em you had a search warrant," says Sid. "If anyone started asking questions."

"Do you think they'd believe it?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Sullivan shrugs. He can't really argue the case against a search of Sid's property being a plausible cover story, not after the amount of times he's had Sid in the cells for petty theft.

"C'mon," Sid says, opening the door. "You'd better come in."

Sullivan steps up into the caravan. Sid brushes past him to light the oil lamp above the pantry, then pulls the door closed, locking it behind them.

"Have a seat." 

There are a limited number of places to sit, so perhaps it's just that Sullivan chooses the piece of furniture in closest proximity to the door, but he ends up sitting on Sid's bed. Perched awkwardly on the edge, as though he has never tried sitting anywhere before in his life. 

"Want a drink?" Sid asks, taking pity. 

Sullivan nods and Sid gets out half a bottle of single malt he's been keeping in the cupboard since Christmas. He pours a couple of fingers into an empty glass off the sideboard and passes it to Sullivan. After frowning at the smudged fingerprints around the rim for a second, Sullivan knocks back its contents in one gulp before setting it down on the counter with a clunk. 

He sucks in a breath though his teeth at the burn, and says, "Thank you." 

"Another?"

"Mm."

Sid refills the glass, passing it to Sullivan again, then moves to draw the curtains at the opposite end of the caravan. It's the biggest window, and Sullivan's right; there is always the remote possibility that someone might happen upon them and see something they shouldn't.

Sullivan watches him tuck the curtains into the corners of the window, lips pressed thin with worry, before downing his whisky once again. 

"Should I be insulted?" Sid asks.

"What?"

Sid walks back towards him. He leans across to close the curtains over the two tiny windows above the bed.

"Insulted," he repeats. "That you need to drink like that before you'll sleep with me."

Sullivan winces. "It's not that." 

"What is it, then?"

"Dutch courage... Something to steady my nerves."

"Oh yeah? What've you got to be nervous about?"

Sullivan looks away, examining the pattern on the faded eiderdown. "I don't usually do this."

Any gentle taunt Sid was considering dies on his tongue. 

"That's all right," he says softly. He pours another measure of whisky into Sullivan's glass, but drinks it himself this time. "Just take it easy 'cause I'm not taking advantage if you're too far gone to turn me down."

"I'm not. I don't want to. Turn you down, that is."

"Good. That's good. 'Cause I've been thinking about this for ages..."

It doesn't take much to close the distance between them. A single step and Sid is standing over Sullivan. He undoes the first few buttons of his uniform jacket, then leans forward to run his hands through Sullivan's hair, and Sullivan takes a shuddering breath, releasing it slowly as Sid strokes his way down his neck.

"Relax," Sid tells him. His hands settle on Sullivan's shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. It's hard to get a good grip through the pads of his suit, so Sid pushes at his jacket. "Here, take this off."

There isn't much room to maneuver. Sid helps him out of it, throwing it aside. Sullivan's braces cut into his shoulders and Sid traces the edges of the elastic for a second, before slipping his hands under the loops, and sliding them down over his arms until they're hanging loosely about his sides.

When he takes hold of Sullivan's shoulders and squeezes again, Sullivan stifles a moan.

"You like that?" Sid asks. 

"Yes."

"Go on, shift over."

Sid kicks off his boots, climbing onto the bed, and settling on his knees behind Sullivan. He starts to rub Sullivan's shoulders in earnest then, working his thumbs in circles over the nape of Sullivan's neck. 

"God, you're tense," he whispers. 

"Am I?"

"Yeah, you've got knots in your muscles."

"Mm..."

Sid massages further down Sullivan's back, over his shoulder blades.

"You must be sore all the time..."

Sullivan groans, head lolling forward involuntarily.

"I'd never noticed," he says, and Sid thinks that might be the saddest thing he's heard all year.

"Am I hurting you?" 

"A little." 

Sid stills his hands. "Want me to stop?"

"No, what you're doing... It's... nice."

Sullivan's voice is deeper than usual, hoarser. As though he has just woken up from a deep sleep. 

"Is it helping?"

"Mmm."

Sid carries on kneading the tender muscles until he feels the tension finally start to lift. 

"How long's it been," Sid asks, voice low, "since you let a man touch you?"

There is a moment of silence before Sullivan answers, "A long time. Back when I was in the army..."

"And no one since?"

"No. Nothing like this."

That should be enough to warn Sid off - the lengths Sullivan has gone to in order to protect himself. Eight long years or more of self-imposed loneliness. A good man would do the decent thing and send Sullivan away, tell him it's not worth jeopardising his life, his social standing for this, but instead Sid finds himself winding his arms around Sullivan's chest, pulling him back, so that Sullivan is flush against him. 

Perhaps Sid isn't a good man at all because he starts to harden then. The friction combined with the idea of being the first man to touch Sullivan in so long is making him ache. He needs this. But it isn't all selfish; Sullivan needs it too. Forget about career, forget about standing; a life spent running from your most basic needs is no life at all. It's barely even an existence.

"All right," says Sid, reaching to fumble with Sullivan's tie. "Let's get you out of these..."

He unhooks Sullivan's tiepin, tugs the fat end of the tie back up through the knot. It is easier at this angle, almost like taking off your own, and Sullivan tilts his head back against Sid's shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. Once the tie is out of the way, Sid runs the tips of his fingers across Sullivan's Adam's apple - lightly, ever so lightly - teasing him, before he starts on his shirt. 

Sullivan shivers as Sid's fingers make quick work of the buttons. He unfastens Sullivan's trousers next, pushing them lower on his hips, slipping a hand inside. Sullivan is hard too, straining against his shorts, and when Sid cups him in his palm, Sullivan thrusts up with a hiss.

"How long's it been since you let a man do this to you, hmm?" Sid can feel the low rumble of his own voice against Sullivan's back, thick with arousal.

"Carter-"

"How long since you've had a bloke give you what you need?"

" _Carter._ "

"I think we're well past _Carter_ now, don't you?" Sid says, gripping him through the layer of cotton and squeezing for emphasis. 

"Sid!" 

"That's better. C'mere."

He plants kisses on the side of Sullivan's neck, his cheek, encouraging Sullivan to turn towards him. When Sullivan does, Sid grabs his jaw in his hands and pulls him in for a proper kiss. 

It's urgent, rough. All clashing teeth and bruised lips, and Sullivan moans into his mouth. 

Sid is the one to break it. He draws back, sucking in a breath at the sight of Sullivan with his shirt open. Of course Sullivan is a handsome man, but it's more than that. For the first time, sitting there in his vest, he is laid bare, without all of his usual layers to hide behind. 

"Look at you," Sid says, tracing a line of muscle down Sullivan's stomach through the fabric.

"Sid-"

"You've been doing your fifteen minutes a day."

Sid lowers himself backwards onto the bed, dragging Sullivan down on top of him. He wants Sullivan to cover him completely, but Sullivan is propping himself up on his forearms, trying not to rest his full weight on Sid. 

"Am I too heavy?" he murmurs. 

"No, no. I like it."

With a nudge, Sid eases one of his thighs between Sullivan's. He runs his hands down the length of Sullivan's back, grabbing Sullivan's arse to pull him harder against him.

"Please," Sullivan chokes out, thrusting helplessly. 

This time it's Sid's turn to groan. "I mean it, I like you here, like this."

They begin to move together, finding a slow, steady rhythm.

Sullivan buries his face in Sid's neck, as though looking at Sid beneath him is too much to bear. He is breathing heavily through his nose, hot against Sid's skin, and Sid isn't sure how much more he'll be able to take either.

The familiar scratch of stubble, the weight of a man pressing him into the mattress where Sullivan's arms are no longer able to fully support him - he'd forgotten how much he needed it. He can't begin to imagine how badly Sullivan must need it. It occurs to him vaguely that neither of them are going to last very long, that they should properly undress, but that doesn't seem to matter, not anymore.

"Gonna fuck you," Sid pants against Sullivan's ear, suddenly overwhelmed. "Next time. I want- oh God, I wanna be inside you."

" _Sid-_ "

"Want to take you. Give you everything you need. D'you want that? Want me to fuck you?"

Sullivan makes a desperate little noise, grinding down into the hollow of Sid's hip.

Both of their movements are frenzied now. The only sounds inside the caravan the creaking of the bed springs and their harsh, staccato breaths. 

"I can't, I'm going to-" Sullivan gasps, but that's all he manages to get out before his breath hitches and his body tenses. 

Sid closes his eyes. He clings to Sullivan, holding him in place as he follows him over the edge, crying out wordlessly. 


	6. Chapter 6

"You all right?" Sid begins, watching the flame lick at the underside of the kettle.

Sullivan nods, pushing himself upright on shaky arms. 

He's been subdued for the last few minutes, trembling slightly in a way that Sid suspects has nothing to do with the cold, and Sid thinks it's probably a good idea to keep him talking. 

"Bit shaken?"

"Yes." 

"Yeah, me too." Sid takes two flannels off the small stack of clean linen in the bottom cupboard. "Dunno what you did to me, but I feel like my legs are gonna give way."

"Sorry." 

"Don't be. I wasn't complaining."

The kettle starts to whistle and Sid wraps a tea towel around the handle, lifting it off the little camping stove he's got set up on the counter, and pouring some of the water into a bowl. He mixes some cold in with the hot, testing the temperature with one knuckle before dipping the first flannel into the bowl and wringing it out.

"Here you go," he says, holding it out for Sullivan.

Sullivan blanches, but takes it from him anyway. "Would you mind...?"

"Eh? Oh. No. 'Course not."

It seems vaguely ridiculous to Sid that Sullivan has chosen this moment to go shy on him. It's a bit late for modesty, although Sid must admit that there's never anything terribly glamorous about the clean-up operation after. 

So he makes a point of crossing to the other half of the caravan to wash himself off, undressing quickly, and rummaging through the drawer. He grabs a couple of pairs of fresh boxers, changing into one of them, then laying the other out on the table.

"You'll have to wear some of mine for tonight. Throw yours in the wash bag in the corner," he calls over his shoulder to Sullivan. 

"Thank you," comes the muttered reply. 

When he turns back, Sullivan is sitting on the edge of the bed in just his vest and borrowed shorts, looking unsure of what to do with himself. His suit is folded neatly on the bed beside him and Sid wanders over, picking it up and putting it on the settee before he moves Sullivan's shoes closer to the door. 

"Leaving them here so we don't trip over them in the morning."

Sullivan nods, a brief, jerky movement of his head. 

"Right, I could do with a cup of tea. D'you want one?"

"Mm."

Sid walks back over to the work surface, tossing both flannels into the bowl to soak, and rinsing off his hands. When he bends to retrieve two tin mugs from under the counter, he groans. 

"I'm not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"An old man. One night with you and I'm ready for the knacker's yard... I don't normally last two minutes, either, for the record. You can ask around - I've got a reputation to maintain." 

Sullivan's jaw is clenched, not in anger, but as though he is trying to prevent his teeth from chattering. "I'm not sure I want to hear." 

"I'm just saying, it's you getting me worked up. Might've been able to go the distance if I hadn't been imagining all the things I wanted to do to you for the past few weeks."

"Is that what you've been doing?"

"Among other things," Sid says with a smirk. But Sullivan is still uncomfortable - reticent - and Sid is no closer to working out how to put him at his ease. 

"So when did you know then, eh?" he forges on, picking up the kettle again. "That you fancied me?"

"Not long after we met."

"Yeah?" Sid asks, hoping the swell of pride he feels at Sullivan's confession doesn't spill over into his voice. "You mean you've been thinking about me all this time too, and you never said anything?" 

"What was I supposed to say?" 

"How about: 'get over here and give us a kiss'?"

"I'm not sure that would've gone down too well with my superiors. Or anyone else for that matter."

"Probably not." For all his flippancy, Sid can see he isn't making any progress, and he decides to change tack. "Have you always known you liked men?" 

"Since I was a teenager," Sullivan says, voice so low, Sid has to strain to hear him.

"As long as that?"

"There was a boy in my year in school, and in hindsight, I suppose I was quite taken with him."

Sid takes two teabags out of the canister, drops them into the cups and fills them with what's left in the kettle. "Only in hindsight?"

"I mistook my feelings towards him for admiration initially. He was very athletic, very popular. I wanted to be like him, in an odd sort of way."

Sid cocks his head, pursing his lips. "Makes sense."

"Then I started to think about him differently."

"Did he think of you like that?"

"I don't know. I never told him. I kept hoping it'd pass. It sounds stupid now, but I thought perhaps I'd develop an interest in girls the way all the other boys had, that I was just a late bloomer, but..." Sullivan trails off.

"But you never did," Sid finishes for him.

"No." 

Sid scoops the teabags out, pressing them against the side of the cups. 

"Can't help what you like," he says.

Sullivan lets out a hollow laugh, eyes downcast. "My father might disagree."

"Does he know?"

"About me?" Sullivan swallows, suppressing a little shiver. "God, no. He's probably still holding out hope that I'll marry."

"Take it he wouldn't be best pleased if he did find out?" Sid says, feeling his stomach twist with regret at the way he'd teased Sullivan about being a bachelor earlier.

"He'd probably report me to the authorities himself."

The unsettled feeling in Sid's stomach turns to nausea. He thinks he understands it now; Sullivan's quiet, sober mood. His reticence. He must be so steeped in shame - years of it, a lifetime of it - that he is disgusted with himself and what he's done. Perhaps he even regrets it, but that thought is too distressing to dwell on, so Sid doesn't.

Instead he adds a couple of spoonfuls of sugar to the tea, stirring it in, and taking a swig of his own.

"You and your dad still on speaking terms?" he asks quietly. 

"I speak to him when I have to."

"And how often's that?"

Sullivan shrugs. "He rings sometimes."

"Does he live round here?" 

"No. Back in London."

"So you don't see very much of him?"

"Why do you think I took this transfer?" 

Sid passes Sullivan his mug. It is too late to take back what's been done now. The best he can do is provide comfort, however cold it is, so he sits down beside Sullivan on the bed - so close their thighs are pressed together - and places a reassuring hand in the small of his back.

"That the only reason you came here? To get away from him?" 

"Well, it certainly wasn't for the scenery."

"Oh, I dunno. I've caught you enjoying the view a few times."

Sullivan looks across at him, confused, and Sid nods down towards his own bare chest. When Sullivan's confusion turns to exasperated distaste, Sid feels a wave of relief wash over him. 

"What?" Sid says, wrapping his arm around Sullivan the rest of the way and giving his hip a gentle squeeze. "Don't pretend you haven't been looking."

"I can hardly pretend now, can I?"

"Well, I'd have a hard time believing you if you did."

"I could still claim it was an error in judgment."

"Oh, charming!"

But Sullivan is fighting the beginnings of a smile, playing along, and it's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. 

Sid nudges him with his elbow. "Go on, drink up."

Sullivan takes a sip and frowns. "This is black."

"Yeah," says Sid. "Milk won't keep in this weather. It's all right in the window box outside in winter, but it goes off too fast in this heat."

"Haven't you got a fridge?" 

"Nope. No electricity out here, how would I have a fridge?"

Another couple of cautious sips, and Sullivan curls his lip. "There's sugar in it."

"That's right. Thought you could do with some."

"I don't take sugar." 

"You do tonight. Got to keep your strength up."

Sullivan chokes down another couple of mouthfuls before giving up. "Next time," he says, "we're meeting at my house."

"Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure I'd be interested in a next time?"

"Well- of course I didn't mean- you don't have to-"

Sid cuts him off with a kiss to the side of his mouth, taking the tea from his hand and setting the cup down on the sideboard alongside his own. 

"I'm joking. 'Course I'm interested."

"You were the sort of boy who pulled little girls' pigtails when you liked them, weren't you?"

"Funnily enough, I was," Sid grins. "Put a grasshopper down the back of Johnny Bowman's tee-shirt once 'cause I fancied him and I didn't know what to do about it."

"If you ever put an insect of any kind anywhere near me, I'll lock you in the cells overnight."

"Mm, but what'll you do to me while I'm in there? That's the question..." 

"You are incorrigible." 

"Yep." Sid leans in to steal another kiss. By the time he pulls back, Sullivan has stopped shaking completely. "You feeling a bit better now?"

Sullivan nods, sheepish. "Not quite sure what came over me-"

"'S'all right," Sid says. "You don't have to explain. Takes a lot out of you, all this."

"I suppose it does."

"They reckon one quick roll in the hay uses up more energy than doing half an hour of sit-ups."

"Who on earth told you that?"

"One of the blokes down The Red Lion."

"Oh, and I'm sure _he's_ a reliable source."

Sid sniffs. "Yeah, well, maybe not. But either way, I know which I'd prefer to be doing..."

"Hm," says Sullivan, apparently unable to argue with that logic. 

"Right." Sid slaps his knees, getting to his feet. "Think it's time you and me got some shut eye, or you're gonna be fit for nothing in the morning."

"Are you sure it's a good idea for me to stay?"

"Think it'd be rude to kick you out at this point."

"Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

"Lady F'll let me off if I tell her I've got a hangover," Sid lies, because now really isn't the time to send Sullivan into a second wave of panic over just how much Lady F knows about the situation. "C'mon, get in, lie down."

Sullivan does as he's told, swinging his legs up and pulling the eiderdown over himself with no further protests, and Sid wonders whether his impulse to follow orders is simply a remnant from his army days, or something all together more interesting. 

The flame in the oil lamp is burning low, and Sid cups the curve of the glass with his fingers, blowing it out in a single breath.

"All right, shift over," he says, feeling for the edge of the mattress in the dark and crawling into bed beside Sullivan. 

When he reaches for him, Sullivan makes a soft, surprised sound. "You can't possibly want-"

"I don't," says Sid, giving him a final peck on the cheek before flopping over onto his back, and tucking one arm up under the pillow beneath his head. "Or maybe I do, but it'll have to wait 'til morning. I'm not bleedin' Superman."

"I wasn't aware that was one of Superman's powers," Sullivan says dryly.

"Oh, it definitely is. Why d'you think Lois Lane sticks around for boring old Clark Kent from the newspaper office if he isn't going three times a night? _She_ doesn't know he's Superman."

Sullivan swats at Sid's shoulder, starting to laugh despite himself. "I don't think they ever put that into print."

"Censors," Sid says, deadpan, as he pulls Sullivan against his side. "They cut out all the good bits when they bring it over here."

"Do they indeed?"

"Well-known fact."

"If it's so well-known, how come I've never heard about it?"

"Obviously you don't buy the annuals."

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe."

Sullivan's laughter slowly subsides and he tucks his head under Sid's chin. They lie together in the stillness of the night, breathing slowly, Sullivan's fingers tracing idle patterns through Sid's chest hair, until Sid feels himself starting to drift off. 

"Thank you," Sullivan says, suddenly serious, and Sid opens his eyes again. 

"What for?"

"For being so kind. You needn't have been." 

"Don't."

"I mean it. Most men wouldn't have shown such patience. I didn't expect you to-"

"Don't." Sid holds him tighter, squeezing his arm. "You're all right..."

"Mmm," Sullivan hums, possibly in agreement, or possibly because he's beginning to nod off himself. 

"Get some rest," Sid whispers, kissing his hair. 

Sullivan smells good - comforting - like botanical hair tonic, mixed with the underlying scent of fresh sweat. Sid inhales deeply, stroking Sullivan's shoulder with his thumb. Within seconds, he succumbs to his exhaustion, and falls asleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

The rustling of bed clothes wakes Sid. 

He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking around, trying to get his bearings, only to find Sullivan sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, fastening his shirt. It must be early; the room is still largely in darkness, with just the first light of dawn beginning to creep in through the unlined curtains.

Sullivan turns towards him.

"Good morning," he says, sounding far more chipper than anyone has the right to at this ungodly hour. 

"Oh, bleedin' hell," Sid croaks. "What time is it?" 

"Almost five-thirty."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

Sid groans, sinking back down to bury his face in the pillow. "What're you doing up so early?"

"I need to get home before half the village is awake to catch me."

Sid rolls his head to the side, frowning. "Woah, woah, hold your horses. You can't go yet." 

"I have to."

"No, no, c'mon." Sullivan finishes buttoning his shirt and makes to stand, but Sid catches hold of his wrist. "Come back to bed for a bit."

"I can't. It'll be light soon."

"Just for a couple of hours. You can leave later. Nobody's gonna know when you got here."

"I'm wearing last night's suit."

"Then you can borrow something of mine."

"Somehow I don't think that would look any less suspicious, do you?"

"Fair point," Sid sighs, and Sullivan pulls away.

He's right, of course. They do need to be careful. In half an hour or so, Kembleford will stir into life. The baker will fire up the ovens for the first round of bread, and the newsagent will take in his delivery of papers. Far better that Sullivan leaves now, while the streets are still relatively empty. 

Sid watches him groping around on the ledge for his tiepin in the dim light. As his eyes adjust and Sullivan comes more sharply into focus, Sid can just make out the dark stubble lining his jaw. His hair is wildly dishevelled, and Sid gets an odd sort of thrill out of knowing that he's the one who caused it. 

"You might want to use my comb before you go," he says. 

Sullivan's hands move reflexively to his head, feeling for the patches of hair that are sticking up and trying in vain to flatten them down with his fingers.

"How bad is it?" 

"Hedgerow backwards."

"Wonderful. We might as well broadcast it to the entire village..."

For all that the possibility of being exposed fills Sid with dread, he can't help the rush of arousal he gets at the fantasy of it. The fantasy of staking his claim publicly, and leaving Sullivan looking so thoroughly ruined that even strangers would know what Sid had done to him.

"There's probably some dregs left in the kettle," Sid tells him, adjusting himself under the covers. "Wet it down with that. Should be some Brylcreem on the table, too."

"Water will do."

Sullivan splashes what little is left onto his hair, combing it back into place, while Sid settles on his back, taking in the sight of him. 

When Sullivan has finished, he turns to Sid.

"Well?" he asks.

"Well what?"

"Will I pass muster?"

"Mmm," Sid says, eyeing him appraisingly. "Very nice."

"You know what I mean," says Sullivan. "Not too unkempt?"

"Well, you don't look like you spent last night grinding me into the mattress, if that's what you're getting at." 

"Really, Carter!"

"What?"

"Must you be so vulgar?"

"Thought that was what you liked about me."

"That is certainly _not_ what I like about you."

"Ah, then you do like _something_ about me."

"Maybe," Sullivan concedes. 

"All right, c'mere," Sid reaches up to yank Sullivan down for one last kiss, careful to keep his hands to Sullivan's face, away from his hair. He pulls back, pressing his forehead to Sullivan's. "Just as long as you like me enough to come back for more."

"I might be persuaded..."

"You'd better be." Sid brushes Sullivan's cheeks with his thumbs. "Go on then, get out of it, before I'm tempted to drag you back into bed and keep you here."

Sullivan straightens up, turning towards the door.

"Until next time," he says with a brief nod over his shoulder, before heading out into the fresh morning air. 

The door clicks shut behind him and Sid rolls over, closing his eyes to shut out the cold sensation that settles in his chest and stomach. 

Contrary to popular belief, Sid is not an expert on relationships. 

The majority of his experiences have been casual encounters, with the occasional, brief love affair. Chatting up someone down the pub, having a few drinks, and falling into bed together is about the extent of his romancing skills, and what happened with Sullivan last night doesn't feel anything like his usual one-night stands. 

There are probably rules about how long you are supposed to wait before asking someone out a second time, Sid thinks, as he leans back against the headrest of the Rolls.

Bunty would know. She used to read the advice columns in magazines aloud to him when they were younger, about how to play it cool with men and keep them keen. But Sid hadn't been paying much attention back then, and Bunty isn't here now. He has her number in his address book, but he can't think of a way to naturally work that sort of question into a conversation over the phone...

Perhaps Sid could just invite Sullivan back to the caravan again. That doesn't seem like such a ridiculous idea, does it? They could meet once a week, make it a regular thing. 

Sid frowns against the glare of the afternoon sun through the windscreen, and pulls his cap down over his eyes.

He wouldn't mind seeing Sullivan every week. It wouldn't have to be anything serious; nothing set in stone. Although, if Sullivan wanted it to be serious, then maybe Sid wouldn't mind that either...

Loud rapping at the glass startles Sid, and he looks up to see Lady F beaming in at him.

"Am I disturbing your beauty sleep?" she asks through the half-open window.

"Just resting my eyes."

He sets his hat straight on his head as she opens the back door and slides in. 

"Late night?" she says, with a conspiratorial smile and a quirk of her eyebrow.

"Might've been."

"You didn't have to come in today, you know. Not if you didn't feel up to it."

"Ah, but then who'd drive you to... the parish council meeting? Is that where we're going?"

"Well remembered."

"Mind like a steel trap," Sid says, tapping his temple.

He starts the car and pulls off down the drive. After sitting in companionable silence for the first minute or so of their journey, Lady F leans forward in her seat.

"So?" she prompts. 

"So what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me how it went?"

"A gentleman," says Sid, "doesn't kiss and tell."

"Which is why I'm asking you."

"Oi!"

"Oh, don't pretend to be offended. I've seen sailors on shore leave behave in a more gentlemanly fashion than you."

"Charming..."

"Come on, don't keep me in suspense. I want details."

Sid opens his mouth, then closes it again, suddenly unsure of himself. It isn't as though he's never shared the details of his exploits with Lady F before. They've often exchanged stories about their flings and one-night stands, which in hindsight probably isn't terribly gentlemanly, but it was always in the strictest confidence. Still, somehow it would feel like a betrayal to discuss Sullivan in those terms behind his back. 

Oblivious, Lady F continues: "All that running after criminals must keep him in fine fettle. I'll bet he was absolute dynamite in be-"

"I don't think he'd like it," Sid cuts her off, panic rising in him. 

"What?"

"Being talked about. I don't think Sullivan would like it."

"Oh," she says. "I see..." 

She doesn't sound offended, just thrown off-balance. Nonetheless Sid feels the need to explain himself further. 

"I'm not trying to be a killjoy. He just seems so... private."

"In that case, we'll say no more on the matter."

But Sid can still feel Lady F's eyes on him, and when he looks into the rear-view mirror, she searches his face so intently that Sid finds himself turning away again. It isn't a look Sid has ever seen directed at him before, and he isn't sure what to make of it until something softens in her tone and she says, "Oh, _Sid."_

"What?"

"You like him, don't you?" 

"Well, I'm not in the habit of sleeping with people I hate."

"You know what I mean."

Sid swallows, throat dry. "Yeah. I do."

"When are you seeing him again?"

"I dunno. We didn't make any set plans."

"But you are going to see him again?"

"Yeah. Just got to wait and see how he wants to play it, I s'pose."

"And what about you?" asks Lady F. "How do you want to play it?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. 

"Do you want my advice?"

"Got a feeling I'm about to get it anyway..."

"Don't leave it up to him to make the first move."

"Why not?"

"Because the man is absolutely hopeless." Lady Felicia tilts her head, brow furrowing. "You only have to talk to him for five minutes to establish that."

"Bit harsh."

"But true. He isn't the sort to confess anything outright, and I don't want you getting hurt."

"Why would I get hurt?" Sid scoffs, but his derision sounds false even to his own ears. 

It must sound false to Lady F, too, because she doesn't bother to dignify him with a response.

All she says is, "Just trust me - you'll need to give him a gentle nudge."

She's right, of course.

Sid only manages to last six days before he relents and takes Lady Felicia's advice. 

Patience has never been one of his virtues - not if Mrs. M is to be believed - and with no word from Sullivan for almost a week, he is frustrated beyond words.

If Sid had hoped that one night with Sullivan might help ease the tension, then he was sorely mistaken, because moderation is another virtue Sid lacks. He doesn't operate in half-measures - if he enjoys something, he will indulge in it to excess, which is the reason why he wakes up most Monday mornings with a hangover, why he always has second helpings when he goes round for dinner at the presbytery, and why, having had a taste of Sullivan, he is being driven slowly out of his mind with wanting more. 

The only question is how he is going to broach the subject, and he has gone over it and over it in his head for the past couple of days. 

Turning up unsolicited twice in the space of a week at the station would look suspicious, and Sid can't risk ringing Sullivan there for the same reason. He doesn't have Sullivan's private number, but he knows where the police cottage is, so Sid ultimately settles on the idea of a note. 

He spends the better half of the morning trying to compose one, to come up with a way of wording it that wouldn't be too incriminating if anyone else were to read it. And after dropping Lady F at Mass, Sid drives over to the presbytery and sneaks into the study. 

On a pilfered sheet of Mrs. M's fancy writing paper, he scrawls:

_'Tomorrow. Same time, same place. Bring a flask if you want milk in your tea.'_

He wafts the letter in the air. As soon as the ink looks dry, he folds it and shoves it inside a matching envelope. The writing set is a sickly peach colour, scented with something vaguely floral; so feminine that Sid thinks it would be very unlikely anyone would ever link it to him. 

He licks the gummed edge, pressing it down, and pushes the sealed envelope into the inside pocket of his chauffeur's jacket, then he hurries back to the car to ensure he's back in time to pick Lady F up from church. 

Once he's parked the Rolls for the night, he sets out on foot into the village. The sun is hanging low in the sky, dusk fast approaching, and by the time he rounds the corner onto the little cobbled lane, it is almost dark. 

The lane is deserted apart from him. A cautious glance around shows there is no one at any of the windows in the surrounding houses. The last thing Sid needs now is twitching curtains and nosy neighbours, but he can't see any signs of life at all. 

He walks up to the front door of the little police cottage and presses the letterbox open with his fingers before sliding the envelope through, in order to keep the noise to a minimum. It hits the mat with a dull thwack, and Sid turns and leaves as quickly as he can without breaking into a run. 


	8. Chapter 8

The second hand on Sid's wristwatch ticks away. Sid watches it go round, counting down the minutes until ten o'clock.

Somewhere between turning off the wireless after _Up To You_ and watching the sun set on the horizon, Sid's anticipation had given way to a sense of anxiety, and he can't seem to brush off the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

What if Sullivan doesn't come?

Sullivan hasn't been in contact for a week now. Who's to say he wants to see Sid again?

Sid slips another Mint Imperial into his mouth and tucks his shirt more firmly into his trousers. He straightens up a few of the postcards he's got pinned to the wall, tidies a stack of papers on the table, toying with the idea of putting the bottle of lotion he bought at the chemists earlier away in the cupboard, then checks his watch again. 

Two minutes to.

Sid doesn't think he's scared Sullivan off. Sullivan had seemed okay before he'd left the following morning. Any misgivings he'd had the previous night appeared to have faded with a little sleep and comfort, but what if he's thought better of it since? Sid is realistic. There's nothing wrong with him - he isn't bad looking and he certainly does all right for himself - but he doesn't exactly have film star good looks either. Sullivan could do better. The convenience of finding a discreet man who returned his interest in Kembleford was probably half of the appeal for Sullivan, and maybe he can't bring himself to tell Sid to his face that he doesn't want more... 

The knock at the door makes Sid jump. A final glance at his watch reveals it's ten o'clock on the dot. 

Heart in his mouth, he makes his way over to the other side of the caravan. He hesitates when he gets there, taking a moment to smooth his hair into place, and chew and swallow the remainder of his mint.

Then, with a steadying breath, he opens the door.

It's Sullivan; standing on the upturned crate Sid uses as a makeshift step in his overcoat, looking nervous. Relief hits Sid so hard that he almost starts to laugh. Leave it to Sullivan to be punctual to the minute, even when arriving for an illicit liaison. 

There is a slight chill in the air, and Sullivan has his collar pulled up. Sid nods, motioning for him to come inside. 

"Wasn't sure you were gonna turn up," Sid says, as he locks the door behind them again.

His relief is short-lived, when Sullivan replies, "Neither was I."

"No?" Sid asks, freezing with his hand on the bolt. 

"No."

"Okay..."

"You took an unnecessary risk, writing me that note."

Sid turns to face Sullivan, a knot coiling in his gut. "Thought a note'd be the safest bet."

"And what if it had gotten into the wrong hands?"

"Seems unlikely, seeing as how I put it through your door myself."

Sullivan's jaw twitches. "Another unnecessary risk."

This isn't exactly the start to the evening Sid had been hoping for.

"Well, how else was I s'posed to get hold of you?" Sid says, indignant. "Telepathy?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. I couldn't just turn up at the station, and I couldn't get you on the blower. What should I have done?"

A pause, then Sullivan says, "You should have waited for me to get in touch with you."

"Right, well, I'm not psychic. I didn't know what you'd decided. Anyway, what difference does it make? One of us had to make the first move, why shouldn't it be me?"

"Because I'm trying to be _careful._ "

"Oh, and I'm not?"

"You and I have very different definitions of 'careful', Carter, we both know that," Sullivan says, and the worst part is, he has a point, just not on this occasion. "What if you were seen?"

"I wasn't."

With a little shake of his head, Sullivan tells him, "You can't possibly know that for a fact."

Sid sighs, trying to remain composed. Sullivan may be overreacting, but his fears aren't unfounded. Sid should try to have a little patience.

"It's not like I just waltzed up to your door without checking first," he says. "There was no one out there when I dropped it off."

"You mean there was nobody you could _see._ "

"No, I mean there was no one _there._ You think this is the first time I've cased a place? Bleedin' hell, Sullivan, I used to make a living out of breaking into people's houses."

An involuntary flex of Sullivan's hand. "Yes, thank you, Carter, I'm well aware."

"Then you'll also be aware that I was good at it."

"I've seen your record, " Sullivan grits out, "you served time for burglary."

"Yeah, _once._ Only time got sent down for breaking and entering, and if you knew how many houses I'd done over, you'd know that was pretty good going."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't tell me about that. You know I can't hear it."

"Why not?"

"You know why!"

Sid scoffs. "What, because it's a _crime?"_

His voice is laced with sarcasm - scathing, taunting. 

Finally Sullivan's mouth contorts with anger. "Yes!"

"Seriously?" Sid asks. "You really wanna get into this now?"

"I'm not getting into anything - you're the one boasting about all the burglaries you've committed! It's bad enough that I'm expected to turn a blind eye to the crimes I already know about, without you insisting on telling me further details of your chequered past!"

"Yeah, well, you didn't seem to care about my past last time you were here."

"Are you doing this on purpose? You do _know_ I'm obliged to report any criminal activity I hear about, don't you?"

Even now, even after what they've done, what they were going to do, Sullivan is still harping on about upholding the law. It's ridiculous. Ludacris. And maybe Sid should rise above it, take the high road, but he never has been much good at backing down when provoked, and really, isn't it about time someone confronted Sullivan with a few home truths?

Sid's temper flares and he laughs, cold and humourless. "Go on then, arrest me."

"Don't test me, Carter."

"No, no, go on. If you're _obliged_ to, why don't you take me in, eh? Arrest me for breaking and entering, years ago. Sod it, while you're at it, you'd better bring me up on charges for fucking other blokes as well. 'Cause I was planning to do that as recently as tonight!"

"Don't be so childish!"

But righteous anger surges in Sid's chest. "Who's being childish? You're the one talking about arresting me."

"I'm asking you not to put me in a difficult position!"

Sid lets out a hysterical little burst of laughter, throwing his hands up, incredulous. "You're already in one, in case you hadn't noticed! It isn't just me who's been breaking the law around here."

"Stop it."

"Stop what? It's a fair point. I didn't get you here under false pretenses. I mean, you didn't think you were coming round for tea and biscuits, did you?"

"I'm warning you-"

"Come on, Sullivan, what're you doing here? Why did you come here?"

"Enough!"

"It's not strictly above board, is it? Meeting a man for sex? Granted, you might not go to prison just for turning up, but if you were planning on letting me bugger you tonight-"

" _Sid,_ " Sullivan cuts him off. His tone has changed, his voice lowered. "Please."

The red mist lifts, and Sid finally takes in the look on Sullivan's face - wounded, imploring. Sid's anger dissipates almost immediately, displaced by guilt, and he knows he's overstepped the mark. 

"Sorry," he says quietly. "That was too far, I'm sorry."

For a few seconds they just stare at each other, chests heaving. 

The moment stretches on, then Sullivan says, "I should go." 

"No! Sullivan, it was just a stupid argument. You don't have to go."

Sullivan pushes past him, ordering him to get out of the way, but Sid follows him over to the door.

"Sullivan, wait, I-"

But Sullivan is already gone, out into the darkness and down the field before Sid can stop him, and all Sid can do is slam his fist against the counter, cursing himself for being so cruel. 


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of metal scraping against china rings out in the presbytery kitchen, where Sid shifts his vegetables around the plate with his fork. 

Usually, he'd give his right arm for one of Mrs. M's home-cooked meals, but as he pokes morosely at the parsnips, he can't quite bring himself to finish. His appetite has dwindled over the last couple of days, and not even a midweek roast seems to be enough to restore it. 

"Sidney Carter!" Mrs. McCarthy snaps, jolting him out of his reverie. "Stop that this instant!"

Sid glances up to find her scowling at him, lips drawn thin with anger.

"What?" he asks. 

"That noise! It's like nails down a blackboard. If I'd known you were just going scratch my best dinner service, I'd have given you the everyday china!"

When Sid sets down his cutlery and holds up his hands, placating, she looks less annoyed, but adds: "And get your elbows off the table!" 

"All right, all right," he mutters, petulant. 

In hindsight, he shouldn't have come. He has been out of sorts ever since his argument with Sullivan. Unfit company, unfit for much of anything, truth be told. Still, when Father Brown had invited him, he'd thought it might do him some good to get out of the caravan for a bit...

"Honestly," Mrs. M is saying, still glaring at him. "You'd think you'd been born in a barn."

To her left, Father Brown is watching him too, frowning, though he doesn't look angry. He looks interested. 

"Not hungry this evening?" he asks, peering over the rim of his glasses.

Sid shrugs. "No."

"Most unlike you to be off your food, Sid."

To the casual observer, Father Brown might appear concerned, and perhaps he is, but it's more than that. His curiosity is piqued - Sid can see it in his eyes, in the slight crease of his brow. He has sensed Sid is troubled, and it will only be a matter of time before he starts trying to get to the bottom of it.

Sid can't have that. The Father is like a bloodhound once he's on the scent of something, and if anything is going to scare Sullivan off permanently, it's news that Father Brown has been asking questions. 

"Think I might be coming down with something," Sid lies, affecting a slightly weakened voice. 

He regrets it the second Mrs. M's annoyance turns to concern. 

"A cold?" she asks.

"Maybe." 

"In summertime?" Father Brown says around a forkful of potato, tone still conversational, though there is a skepticism in his expression that belies it. "Not usually the season."

"Oh, there's been all sorts going around this year," Mrs. M is quick to interject. "Mrs. Collins was absolutely full of cold in April, and it's been doing the rounds since then."

Sid can see her starting to fret, and it only compounds his guilt. 

"I'm all right," he assures her. "Just a bit run down. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure. Speaking of, I should probably get going..."

Seizing the opportunity to leave before Father Brown manages to stare into his very soul, Sid gets up. Mrs. M stands at the same time, going to retrieve a jar from the cupboard, and pressing it into Sid's hand before he can protest. 

"Make sure you have a hot lemon and honey before you go to bed," she tells him. 

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Honestly. I just need an early night."

He remembers enough of his manners to thank Mrs. M for the meal, even if he's barely touched it, then grabs his leather jacket from the back of the chair, and lets himself out.

Sid doesn't get an early night. 

Later, in the caravan, as he leans back on the bed, sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. 

He doesn't make a hot lemon and honey, either, though maybe the sugar would have perked him up after not eating much. The jar sits unopened on the counter, alongside the almost empty bottle of scotch he's decided to polish off instead.

A light summer rain has set in outside, beating out a tinny rhythm against the roof, and Sid listens to it as he drinks. 

He keeps mulling it over. What to do, where to go from here... 

Should he contact Sullivan? Apologise? Going against Sullivan's wishes can't be a good idea, but what's the alternative? If Sid doesn't try to talk to him, then he will come off as heartless. Uncaring. 

And Sid isn't uncaring. God help him, he isn't. 

He cares more than he ever expected to. Not just about putting things right, or owning up to his mistakes - he cares about _Sullivan._

It shouldn't be as much of an epiphany as it is, but slouched there in the dull light with nothing to distract him, Sid realises it's true. He likes Sullivan - really likes him. Of all the people on the face of this earth Sid could have chosen to develop feelings for, he somehow picked a member of the constabulary. An _Inspector,_ no less. 

The irony isn't lost on him. It might even be funny, if the reality of their situation wasn't so grim. 

Their differences are always likely to be a bone of contention between them, Sullivan's job forever adding to the pressure. 

Had Sullivan really been so unreasonable when he'd chastised Sid for not being more careful? Prison isn't so much of a threat for Sid - he's done a couple of short stretches before - but what would happen to Sullivan in the poke? A man who is responsible for putting half of the other inmates in there in the first place, going away for charges like _that_... Well, it doesn't bear thinking about. 

No wonder Sullivan is scared. It isn't an irrational fear; Sullivan has every right to want to protect himself, and Sid should have understood that at the time.

Why _hadn't_ he understood that? What kind of hot-headed idiot couldn't see that Sullivan was afraid? 

Sid drains the last of his whisky, wincing at the way it stings the back of his throat.

If he has blown his chances, then he thoroughly deserves it, even if it is going to cut him to the quick.

He pushes himself up off the bed to pour another glass. 

Scotch isn't Sid's drink of choice. He'd take a pint down The Red Lion any day of the week, only he hasn't felt much like going there recently either. The prospect of being egged on by the other regulars to chat up any pretty young woman who comes in makes Sid feel empty in a way he can't fully explain. It isn't that seeing someone else would be wrong, per se - Sid has never made any promises, and Sullivan certainly hasn't made any declarations of intent - but the prospect of actually going through with it, especially now, leaves him cold. 

A knock at the door gives Sid such a start that he nearly drops the bottle on the floor. 

He doesn't know what time it is, he lost track somewhere around his third glass, but it must be gone midnight. No reasonable person would be calling at this hour, unless- 

Panic wars with hope in Sid's chest as he calls out, "Who is it?"

"It's me," comes Sullivan's voice through the door.

Sid almost trips over himself in his haste to open it.

"Hey, come in, come in," says Sid, ushering Sullivan inside.

Sullivan's hair is damp, the front of his suit and shirt soaked in patches where the fastenings of his coat haven't been enough to withstand the worst of the weather. 

Once the door is locked behind them, Sullivan asks, "Did I wake you?"

But even as he's asking, he is surveying the room, taking in the sight of the made-up bed, the empty bottle of whisky, and the full glass. 

"Couldn't sleep," Sid admits quietly. 

"No. Neither could I."

There are so many things Sid has wanted to say; apologies and appeals for forgiveness, yet now, with Sullivan in front of him, the words stick in his throat. Sullivan looks like he wants to say something too, but neither of them speak. They only stand, gazes locked, an intensity in Sullivan's eyes that Sid has never seen before. 

"Listen," Sid begins at length. "The other night, what I said... I'm sorry, okay?"

Sullivan's jaw twitches. "I'm sure we both spoke out of turn..."

"No, I mean it. I lost my temper, said some lousy things, and believe me, I have been regretting it ever since."

"Sid..."

"Just- let me make it up to you, all right?"

Sullivan nods, expression inscrutable. 

Sid isn't sure which of them moves first. One second they are looking at each other, the next Sullivan's hands are tangled in the front of Sid's shirt, grabbing at him, pulling him down into a kiss, and Sid's hands are cupping Sullivan's jaw. There is a brief struggle, and somehow it is Sullivan whose back hits the cupboard first, with Sid landing flush against him. When Sid stays there, pinning him in place with his body, Sullivan moans into his mouth.

"Here," Sid says, pulling apart just long enough to catch his breath. "Get out of these clothes." 

He captures Sullivan's lips in another brief kiss before stepping back and allowing Sullivan the space to actually undress.

And Sullivan does. Oh, he does. He follows Sid's instructions unquestioningly; shrugging off his coat, leaving it where it falls, before moving frantically to unfasten his suit buttons. 

Sid watches him for a few seconds, dizzy with relief, then he is back on Sullivan, kissing his neck, his collarbone. He works his way down Sullivan's chest, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

When Sid sinks to his knees at Sullivan's feet, Sullivan stares down at him, wild-eyed. 

"What're you- _Oh._ " Sullivan cuts himself off as Sid presses his forehead to Sullivan's stomach, hands coming to rest on the waistband of Sullivan's trousers, and it becomes clear exactly what Sid is planning to do. "Oh God."

"Okay?" Sid asks.

"I- Yes." 

"Hold still, then."

He should probably get Sullivan onto the bed for this. Sitting or lying down, where Sid can keep Sullivan's movements in check, but it's too late for that now. Sid needs him too badly.

He unbuttons Sullivan's trousers, mouthing at the thin cotton of his shorts beneath until he draws a gasp from Sullivan. And then he is pulling those down too, grabbing at Sullivan's hips, and holding him steady as he takes him into his mouth.

It's been a while since Sid's done this, but if the way Sullivan chokes out his name is anything to go by, then he must be doing something right. He has missed it - the taste of a man, the thick weight against his tongue...

Sullivan's hands come up to cradle Sid's head, and he widens his stance, bracing his back against the cupboard. Apart from that he is a study in self-restraint, obediently keeping his hips still even as Sid hollows out his cheeks and starts to suck. Gently at first, with just the slightest pressure.

"Sid, please."

There is a note of desperation in Sullivan's voice already, and Sid wonders how many men have done this to Sullivan before, how many men Sullivan has done this _to._ Was it more than eight years ago? Has Sullivan _ever_ allowed another man to use his mouth on him? He doesn't seem like the type. Too buttoned-up, too straight-laced, yet here he is coming apart while Sid moves his tongue over him. 

That thought alone is enough to make Sid ache. 

Above him, Sullivan is whispering something urgent, something Sid can't quite decipher. He looks up. Sullivan's eyes are are screwed tightly shut, eyebrows drawn together as though he is in pain. His teeth are bared, and Sid tries to track the movement of his lips. It looks like Sullivan is mouthing _please, please, please,_ over and over, like a mantra. 

Sid doesn't know what he's begging for - perhaps Sullivan doesn't even know himself - but he can tell that Sullivan is struggling to remain still now. His thighs are trembling beneath Sid's hands, his hips twitching, and when Sid ups the pressure just a little, Sullivan finally loses the last vestige of self-control. 

His fists clench in Sid's hair, and he cries out, "Sid!" 

Sid pulls off, some sadistic part of him enjoying the way Sullivan writhes when he does. "What?"

"Don't _stop!"_

Maybe it's the sheer indignance in Sullivan's voice, maybe it's just the fun of teasing Sullivan, but Sid is unable to hold back a laugh. He takes Sullivan into his mouth again, still giggling, and that seems to be what does it. The slick warmth of Sid's mouth combined with the thrum of laughter is enough to tip Sullivan over the edge. 

Sullivan manages to get out a semi-coherent warning of, "Sid, I- Oh God, I'm going to-"

But Sid doesn't stop, and with a final thrust, Sullivan is coming. Sid swallows once, twice, then draws back, working Sullivan through the last of it with his hand. 

He doesn't have much time to think about the insistent ache between his own legs because as soon as Sullivan is spent, he sags forward against Sid, legs giving way slightly, and Sid has to surge up to grab him around the waist. 

"It's all right, it's all right, I've got you..." Sid murmurs, propping him upright. "C'mon, let's get you into bed."

With Sullivan leaning on his shoulder for support, Sid maneuvers him over to the bed. 

"Take off the rest of your clothes and lie down," Sid tells him. 

Sullivan nods mutely and does as he's told. 

This time he doesn't insist on having Sid turn away - it's truly too late for shyness now - though Sid makes a point not to watch him anyway. He busies himself with undoing his own shirt and trousers, and when he's stripped down to just his shorts, he dims the oil lamp and settles on the bed behind Sullivan, wrapping his arm around his chest and holding him close. 

"You okay?" he whispers. 

Sullivan nods, and Sid moves his hand up briefly to smooth back the hair from Sullivan's forehead.

"Take it I'm forgiven, then?"

"Mm," Sullivan hums, then more hesitantly adds: "Am I?"

"Nothing to forgive."

"I'm not sure about that..."

"I am."

After a long pause, Sullivan says, "You must need- That is- Shouldn't I at least... return the favour?"

Sid buries his face in Sullivan's shoulder, starting to laugh again. Trust Sullivan to worry about good form and etiquette now. "You're in no fit state for that tonight."

"It doesn't seem very fair to leave you wanting."

"I'm not," Sid says honestly. "Not anymore."

His arousal is abating, tiredness setting in, as the effects of too much alcohol, and not enough food or sleep over the course of the last two days finally start to take their toll. 

"Another time, then?" 

"Yeah. Call it an IOU."

"There will be another time, won't there?" Sullivan asks tentatively. 

"Long as you want there to be..."

"I do. The other night... I just- overreacted."

"Shh," Sid hushes him. "It's okay."

But Sullivan continues quietly, "I know it sounds absurd, but when I'm here with you, it feels different. Apart, it's as though I've too much time to think about the risk we're taking... Here, I can forget about that for a while."

Sid pulls Sullivan closer still. 

He can't offer any words of solace. He isn't sure that everything will turn out well in the end, that there can be any resolution to their problems. All he can do is hold Sullivan, and mercifully it seems to be enough for now. Sid feels him relax against his chest, breathing evenly, soothed, and Sid relaxes too, just before sleep claims him.


	10. Chapter 10

"Shit!"

Sid cracks open an eye at the sound of Sullivan's voice. A beam of bright morning sun is streaming in through a gap in the curtains, shining directly on his face and he squints against it, rolling over onto his side where he finds Sullivan sitting upright next to him. 

"What's wrong?" he mumbles. 

"It's gone nine," says Sullivan, scrambling to untangle himself from the sheets.

"What?" 

"We overslept!"

"Overslept...?"

"If I'm seen _leaving-_ Sid, for pity's sake, will you wake up!"

Finally Sid sits up, too, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "Okay, okay, hang on. Gimme a minute here..."

"It's nearly ten past nine." Sullivan tilts his wrist towards Sid, tapping at the face of his watch. "We haven't got a minute."

Sid's lagging brain finally catches up with the rest of him and he understands what Sullivan is trying to say. 

It is mid-morning. The village will be a bustling hive of activity by now; shops open, housewives out to fetch the groceries for the day, men buying their morning papers. There will be little chance of Sullivan making it home unseen. 

"Shit," Sid agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose as the gravity of the situation sinks in. 

"How am I going to get home without being caught?"

The short answer is, he isn't. It doesn't matter when Sullivan leaves; most of the village will already be awake by this hour. The only thing they can do is come up with a good cover story. 

But, half-asleep as he is, all Sid gets out is, "It's too late to worry about rushing home now."

"What do you mean?" asks Sullivan, sounding even more panicked. 

"I mean, people will already be up. Hey, hey, relax." Sid grips Sullivan's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's not gonna look suspicious if you're caught walking back from here just this once, is it? You've questioned me plenty of times before. Nobody'll know when you got here. We've just got to make sure we get our stories straight in case anyone asks."

"What stories?" 

"Well, I dunno..."

"Oh, very helpful."

"Cor, give me chance to think, will you? My brain's not working yet."

"Is it ever?" Sullivan says dryly.

"All right, all right." Sid closes his eyes again. He racks his brain, trying to think of something that sounds plausible. "Well, there's always the obvious..."

"Which is?"

"You got a tip off that I was fencing stolen goods and came here to raid my caravan."

"And what," asks Sullivan, "would I be raiding your caravan for exactly?"

"Take your pick... We'd have to make it something small, something you could take with you, show it off if anyone asked any questions..." Sid casts about for inspiration, and suddenly it strikes him. "Passports! You could be here to confiscate the passports!"

Sid gets up, stumbling over to the other half of the caravan.

"What passports?" Sullivan calls from the bed. "What are you talking about?"

Sid rifles through the middle drawer beside the seating area, searching through the odds and ends he's accumulated, before remembering that he stashed them away under an old photograph album for safekeeping. He moves it aside, and sure enough, there they are.

"Got 'em!" Sid says, grabbing the small bundle of a passports, and holding them out to Sullivan, triumphant. "Here you go." 

Sullivan leans across to take them, flicking through the pages, frowning. "These are blank."

"That's right."

It takes Sullivan a good few seconds before a look of realisation crosses his face.

"Forgeries," he says quietly.

"Yep."

"These are forgeries..."

"They will be, yeah."

"What're you doing with them?"

Sid sniffs, shrugs. "Holding onto them for someone."

The colour seems to drain from Sullivan's face. "For someone who makes counterfeit documents?"

"Well, yeah... I know a bloke."

"Do you?"

Sullivan is speaking slowly - processing - and Sid realises he has made another mistake. 

"Look," Sid goes on, trying to placate Sullivan before his temper has the chance to fray. "He doesn't do it for anyone who's done anything really bad. Just, y'know... People who can't get the right papers to move over here. Or people who need a fresh start."

Sullivan swallows, and for one terrible moment, Sid thinks he's going to start arguing again, but then there is a knock at the door, and united in panic, they both look at each other wide-eyed instead.

Neither of them moves.

There is a second knock, and then Sid is shouting, "Hold on, I'm not decent," gesturing wildly for Sullivan to get back under the covers, while he gathers his vest off the floor and wriggles into it.

He watches Sullivan pull the eiderdown up over his head, then moves towards the door. When he opens it, he finds Father Brown on the doorstep, smiling up at him, hand clasped in front of his chest.

"Father," Sid says, a little breathless, and mostly for Sullivan's benefit. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to check you were all right," says Father Brown. "After last night."

"Last night...? Wh- Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Feeling better?" 

"Mm. Mrs. M's honey and lemon really did the trick..." Sid takes a step to the right, where the jar of honey still sits on the worktop untouched behind him. "Thank her for me, by the way."

"I'll be sure to."

For his part, Sullivan remains absolutely silent, and Sid ensures he holds the door at such an angle that it largely obscures Father Brown's view of the bed. Sid can see the Father's eyes scanning the caravan, searching for any signs of life.

He knows Sid far too well. Either that or he already heard two voices coming from inside. There is no way of telling how long he was out there before he knocked, and Sid wouldn't put it past him to eavesdrop.

The only comfort lies in knowing that it's virtually impossible to identify someone's voice through the walls. The caravan muffles the sound; the most Father Brown would have been able to glean is that it was two men speaking, and Sid doesn't think the Father would have the same kind of moral objections most priests would if he found out that Sid had a bloke over to spend the night. Sullivan is safe.

All the same, Sid makes a point of pulling the door closed further, and Father Brown seems to get the message.

He nods, says, "Well, as long as you're sure you're all right..."

"I am."

"Right. I'll just be on my way then."

"Yeah," says Sid. "See you later."

As soon as Sid closes and locks the door again, Sullivan sits up. For a long time, neither of them utters a word. They only look at each other, the question of when it will be safe to talk again going unspoken between them.

Seconds lapse into minutes, and Sid moves over to the window by the settee, kneeling on the cushion there and drawing the curtain back just enough to peek out. When he sees the dark figure of Father Brown retreating into the distance, he releases a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and turns back to Sullivan.

"He's gone," he says. 

Sullivan takes a deep breath then, too. "That was close."

"Yeah."

"Too close."

"He won't have heard," Sid says, pre-empting Sullivan's next line of questioning. "You can't tell who's talking from outside."

" _He_ probably can," Sullivan says through gritted his teeth. " _He_ can probably hear through castle walls."

Sid smiles. "Pretty sure he can't."

"I wouldn't put it past him. And anyway, a keen sense of hearing is the least of our worries. I wouldn't mind betting we could add mind-reading to the list of that man's abilities..."

"Well, we're all in trouble if that's the case."

"Nothing would surprise me with Father Brown."

"You don't like him," Sid says, amused, yet somehow a little hurt. A slight against the Father is a slight against him by extension. 

"I don't like him sticking his oar in."

"He's all right, y'know," Sid sighs, slumping back down onto the bed. "I mean, even if he ever did find out... He'd be all right about it."

"You think he'd accept it?"

"Yeah."

"I find that hard to believe..."

"Well, he might have his doubts. It is supposed to be a sin and all that, but he'd never shop us."

"If you say so," Sullivan mutters curtly, and Sid can't help feeling like he's said the wrong thing again. 

"Honestly, you don't need to worry. He was only checking in on me."

"Yes, I heard." Sullivan frowns, pensive, then adds, "What did he mean, 'after last night'?"

"Eh?"

"Father Brown. He asked if you were feeling better 'after last night.'"

Sid rubs at a mark on his vest, avoiding Sullivan's gaze. "Yeah, I went round to the presbytery for dinner."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what was the matter?"

"Nothing."

Sullivan narrows his eyes. "Then why would the Father come all the way out here to ask after you?"

"I just wasn't feeling great."

"Were you ill?"

"No. Not exactly..."

"You said you had honey and lemon."

"Cor, bleedin' hell, Sullivan," Sid snaps, "you don't let up, do you?"

"What?"

"This. Interrogating people. You don't stop, even when you're off duty."

Squaring his jaw, Sullivan says, "I'm _concerned._ "

"All right," says Sid. "All right, fine, if you're gonna make me say it: I didn't feel like eating 'cause I was upset about our argument, okay?"

Sullivan looks taken aback. "Were you?"

"Yeah."

There is a long silence, then Sullivan says, "I'm sorry."

"Well, it's not your fault, is it? Told you, I was the one who was out of order."

But Sullivan is watching him with a strange intensity, as though Sid has just made some grand revelation. "I didn't realise you were so upset by it."

"I'll live," says Sid, turning away irritably.

"Still. I'm sorry." 

"Seriously, forget it."

The bed dips where Sullivan edges closer to him. One of his arms slips around Sid's chest, and he presses his cheek to the side of Sid's neck, chin resting on his shoulder. "Will you come to the cottage next time?"

"You what?"

"Will you come to the cottage next time we meet?"

"D'you think that's a good idea?"

"The walls are thicker there," says Sullivan, and Sid gives a gentle laugh. 

"Why? You planning on making a lot of noise?" 

"Possibly."

"Oh yeah?"

"Just as long as you can guarantee there'll be no meddlesome priest with his nose pressed to my window, and no clairvoyance involved."

"I won't tell him where we are."

"In that case, shall we make it Friday?"

"Yeah, all right." Sid tilts his head back against Sullivan's shoulder. "What time?"

"Late."

"How late?"

"After ten. Come to the back door."

"Tradesman's entrance?" Sid asks, deadpan.

"Not unless you're moonlighting as something a little more exotic than a chauffeur," Sullivan says, and Sid laughs out loud then.

It hits him all at once that he actually enjoys Sullivan's company. Differences aside, they have rather a lot in common. A similar sense of humour, a similar temperament, even a shared set of values when it comes down to the important things. They might be a good match, in another life...

Still, it's probably best not to dwell on that. 

Sid clears his throat. "Flattered you think I could charge for it," he says. 

"For goodness' sake, don't go getting any ideas."

"You think I've got the energy to service half of Kembleford when I've got to keep you satisfied?"

"I certainly hope not," Sullivan says, voice low and just a little possessive, and it's all Sid can do to hold back a shiver. 

He licks his lips. "Right. Friday it is, then."

"And Sid?" 

"Mm?"

"You will be careful, won't you?"

"I will. I promise."

"Good."

"As long as you will be, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Just... take a couple of these when you leave," Sid says, reaching down and picking up the passports from where Sullivan must have dropped them on the floor earlier. "You could keep 'em on you all the time - as an insurance policy. I'll hang onto the rest, that way we're covered if anyone asks."

Behind him, Sullivan tenses up, but all he says is, "Fine."

And later that morning, true to his word, Sullivan tucks two of the passports away in the inside pocket of his coat before setting out across the fields, into the summer sun. 


	11. Chapter 11

The trouble with a place like Kembleford is that everybody knows your business.

Secrets are hard to keep. Even the mundane details of people's lives get told over tea in parlours around the village. If Mrs. M pays a visit to the drapers, the WI will invariably get to hear about it before she's even had the chance to hang her new curtains. If Father Brown breaks his leg, all and sundry know by the time he's been admitted to the cottage hospital. 

It's almost unavoidable in such a small place, which is why Sid really can't afford to be recognised tonight. 

He's got plans; plans he has had to put on hold since he argued with Sullivan. Sid's presence could be explained away easily enough, but he wouldn't want to have to try to account for the contents of his pocket, were another copper to catch him sneaking around outside Sullivan's house. 

The lampposts that line the main road don't extend to the smaller lanes, and apart from a few lights in the windows of the surrounding houses, the back roads Sid takes are dark enough to ensure he won't be spotted from a distance. 

In his flat cap and navy coat, collar pulled up, Sid slinks down the cobbled entryway unnoticed. He hasn't encountered a single soul since he passed the pub - most of the residents already having retired for the night - but he stays vigilant as he counts the back gardens until he comes to the one that must be Sullivan's. The gate has been left slightly ajar, and Sid slips through, wondering whether Sullivan has left the back door open, too. 

He hesitates when he gets there. Knocking might attract some unwanted attention, but so might trying the door if he's got the wrong house. Everything looks different at night.

He presses lightly on the handle, hesitating when the latch clicks. After a few seconds, he tries again and it yields, the door giving way with a soft creak. Then Sid is pulled forwards as the door is yanked the rest of the way open from the inside. 

"Oh, it is you," Sullivan says from behind it, looking more exasperated than pleased to see him. "Get in."

Regaining his footing, Sid steps into the kitchen.

The first thing that hits him is the smell of Dettol and Fairy Liquid. The room is neat and orderly, with a Welsh Dresser against one wall, displaying what looks like a Woods Ware dinner service, a table covered in finely worked lace, and an immaculate set of pans on top of the stove.

It's nice. Far too nice for any self-respecting bachelor, really. 

Sid takes it all in, basking in the residual warmth from where Sullivan must have been cooking earlier, before turning around to watch Sullivan lock the door. Sullivan is still wearing his work trousers and a white shirt, collar unbuttoned, and tie loosened, and Sid swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

"Why?" he says. "Were you expecting someone else?"

Sullivan turns to face him. "No, but you might've been an intruder. I don't make a habit of leaving my door unlocked."

"Probably sensible."

"Speaking of which," says Sullivan, nodding towards Sid's outfit. "Where did you find that ridiculous getup?" 

"What d'you mean _ridiculous?_ This is mine!" 

"Well, take it off. You look like a cat burglar."

Sid feels for the jar of lotion he's been keeping in his coat pocket, sliding it out and secreting it away in his trouser pocket instead, before he shrugs off his jacket, grumbling, "You're the one who wanted me to be inconspicuous..."

"Inconspicuous is one thing, that outfit's quite another."

"D'you know what I think?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you just want to get me one step closer to being starkers."

Despite another withering look, Sullivan takes Sid's hat and coat from him and hangs them on a hook by the back door. 

"You know your trouble, Carter?" 

"What's that?"

"You've got a one-track mind."

Sid feigns indignance. "I don't think that's very fair."

"Don't you?" asks Sullivan, walking back over to him.

"No. I'll have you know, I can be very romantic."

"I've yet to see any evidence of that..."

As soon as Sullivan is within reach, Sid grabs him around the waist, pulling him close. "Then take me up to bed and I'll show you."

"You see?" Sullivan tuts. "One-track mind."

"You don't even know what I've got _planned_ yet..."

"I don't need to know. I know _you._ "

"In that case," Sid begins, leaning in until their noses almost brush, "you've got a very low opinion of me."

"No. I've got the _measure_ of you. There's a difference."

"Listen, are you gonna take me up to bed and give me the chance to prove my innocence or not?"

"Mm," Sullivan hums. "All right."

Sid lets Sullivan lead the way into the house, through the living room with decor that is just a little too modern for an old cottage, and up the stairs. It's a narrow staircase, and with Sullivan ascending ahead of him, there are only so many places Sid can look. He tells himself his eyes are drawn to the movement of Sullivan's hips, though by the time they've reached the top, Sid is starting to wonder whether Sullivan might have a point about him having a one-track mind...

Framed prints of landscapes and seascapes are arranged along the walls of the landing at perfectly spaced intervals, tidy and precise, and Sid makes a point to peruse those instead until they reach the bedroom door. Sullivan pushes it open, flicking on the light switch, but it's Sid who enters first. 

He gives a low whistle as he looks around. "This is nice."

"I'm glad you approve," says Sullivan, and Sid can't tell whether he's being sarcastic or not.

Sid is being sincere enough for once. He might not go in for all this fancy stuff himself, but he can appreciate it.

The bedroom is fitted out like a display in one of the department stores Lady F sometimes drags him to. Thick lined floral curtains with a matching bedspread, mahogany cabinets either side of the headboard, and a leather-bound ottoman at the foot of the bed. The bedstead is a handsome brass design that matches the curtain pole. None of it would be out of place in a swanky London flat, which Sid can only assume is where Sullivan had it all brought from. 

"Comfy," Sid observes as he plonks himself down on the end of the mattress, bouncing a bit to test the springs. 

"I hope those trousers are clean," Sullivan says, coming to stand over him. "I don't want dirt all over my fresh linen."

"Bit late to worry about where I've been, isn't it?"

With a quirk of his mouth, Sullivan says, "Point taken."

"Come here." Sid pulls Sullivan to him again, stroking his sides, leaning forward to nuzzle Sullivan's abdomen, and breathing in the smell of washing powder and starched cotton. "Mmm, you're always _too_ clean."

"Would you prefer me to be covered in muck all the time, like you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind messing you up a bit."

Sullivan's hand comes up to stroke the back of Sid's neck. "A fantasy of yours, is it?"

"Maybe," says Sid. "But it'll keep. Like I said, I've got plans for tonight."

"Have you now?"

"Yep. So get your kit off and lie down on the bed."

"And they say romance is dead," Sullivan grouses, drawing back and starting to unbutton his shirt nonetheless. 

Sid leans back on his arms, settling in to enjoy the show, but as Sullivan makes a start on his braces, he hesitates. 

"Could you...?" he says, gesturing towards the lamp on the bedside cabinet. 

"Oh. Yeah," says Sid. "Hang on."

He scrambles across to flick it on. By the time he's turned back, Sullivan has gone for the main light switch again, casting the room into near-darkness.

Sullivan seems more at ease without the light overhead, and by the dull amber glow of the lamp, he undresses the rest of the way. When he is down to just his shorts, Sullivan stands there for a moment, looking unsure. He glaces at Sid with a frown, as though he is awaiting further instruction.

"Lie down on your front," Sid tells him, shuffling over and patting the bed beside him.

Once again Sullivan complies, lowering himself until he is lying prone on top of the eiderdown. 

"Okay?" Sullivan asks. 

"Get a pillow."

"Right..."

Sullivan pulls one down the bed, propping his head up on it. Even when he's resting, there is tension in Sullivan's shoulders, and that's all the confirmation Sid needs to know he was right; Sullivan needs this.

The mattress shifts where Sid gets up onto his knees beside him.

Laid out like this, Sullivan looks even more tempting than usual. Sid runs his hands down the length of his back, letting out an appreciative grunt as he pulls the waistband of Sullivan's shorts lower on his hips, moving it out of the way.

Sullivan tenses up. 

"Relax," Sid says softly.

"What're you doing?" 

"You'll find out soon enough."

Sid repositions himself, swinging one leg over Sullivan, so that he is straddling his thighs, and Sullivan sucks in a breath. When Sid retrieves the little bottle from his pocket and unscrews the cap, Sullivan goes completely rigid under him.

"Sid-"

"What?"

"I should tell you-"

"What should you tell me?"

"I've never-"

"Never...?" But finally Sid cottons on. "Oh, no. No, I'm not- That's not what I'm- Here."

Sid scoops out a handful of lotion with his fingers, rubbing his hands together to warm them briefly before planting them on Sullivan's back. 

"Oh," Sullivan sighs, and his whole body seems to go slack under him. 

"Thought you could do with a proper massage," Sid says, smoothing his hands over Sullivan's skin and doing his best not to focus on the knot of guilt forming in his stomach. It hadn't occurred to him that Sullivan might misinterpret the situation or jump to the wrong conclusion. Foolishly, he'd thought it would be a nice surprise, something to ease Sullivan into it...

"Yes," Sullivan murmurs into the pillow.

"Bought this at the chemists the other day. It said _all purpose lotion,_ and it was next to the cold creams, so I thought that'd do. Bunty puts those on her face, so they must be all right. Smelt better than the tubs of Vaseline, anyway."

"Mm, it smells nice."

"I got it for when you next came over, but then we argued and... Well, you know."

Sullivan twists his head to the side. "You've been planning this since then?"

"Yeah."

"That was very... thoughtful of you." 

"Like I said, thoughtful and romantic as they come."

"Quite."

"And anyway, you're always so bleedin' tense, someone's got to help you relax. I feel sorry for the criminals, mood you're in most of the time..."

Sullivan doesn't reply, just moans as Sid rubs circles over his shoulders.

The guilt fades once Sid can see that Sullivan is starting to enjoy it, but he can't stop thinking about the implications of what Sullivan said before...

Has Sullivan never been fucked by a man? Or had Sid misinterpreted what he was saying? If Sullivan hasn't, is it because he doesn't like the idea of that particular act, or has the opportunity simply never come up? Sid knows he shouldn't ask. It is too personal, too private, no matter how curious he is, but he can't seem to stop himself. 

"So what you said..." he falters, trying to come up with a way of conveying his meaning without actually having to say the words. "When you thought- I mean, you've never...?" 

After a brief pause, Sullivan says, "No." 

"That because you never wanted to, or...?"

"I don't know." Sullivan turns his head and presses his face into the pillow again. "I've never had anything more than... brief liaisons with men."

"So you never got the chance?"

Colour starts to creep up Sullivan's neck. "Not exactly."

"Fair enough."

Sullivan shifts under him. "Have you?"

"Yeah," Sid admits. And it should feel dangerous, confessing this to a policeman, only somehow it doesn't. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah."

Muffled by the pillow, Sullivan's words are almost indiscernible. "In which- That is-" 

"Giving or receiving?"

"Yes."

"Both."

Another, longer pause this time, then Sullivan says, "That must take a great deal of trust..."

Sex has always just been sex, as far as Sid is concerned. Sometimes, when he thinks a lot of someone, love can be a factor, but it certainly isn't a prerequisite. Still, he can see why someone like Sullivan would need to get to know someone, build up a mutual trust, before letting them see him so vulnerable. 

Should it hurt that Sullivan hadn't trusted him? Perhaps Sullivan is mistrustful of everyone. God knows he's guarded and closed-off enough most of the time. But does Sullivan really think Sid would make a move on him without any prior discussion? 

They continue in silence for a few minutes, Sid working more cream into Sullivan's back. 

"Sullivan?" he begins at length.

"Mm?"

"You know I'd never try it on with you, don't you? Not without talking to you first."

"I know."

"Yeah, but just now..."

"Just now I thought you were going to ask." 

"That's what I'm saying. I wouldn't just spring something like that on you. I'd check beforehand."

"I know," Sullivan repeats. "It was stupid of me."

The shells of his ears have turned red, and Sid has no wish to embarrass him any further, even to explain himself, so he changes the subject. 

"Here, how does that feel?" Sid asks, applying another dollop of lotion into Sullivan's back and kneading.

"Good..." 

"You've got loads of knots in your muscles again."

"Work's been stressful." 

Sid shuffles up the bed a little way, so that he can reach to rub Sullivan's neck. When he starts raking his fingers through the short hair at the base of Sullivan's head, Sullivan sighs so deeply that Sid can feel the rest of the tension leave him. 

"That nice?"

"Yes..." 

Sid starts to play with his hair then, lifting it between his fingers as a barber might, and with a sudden sadness he realises that's probably the only contact Sullivan usually gets. He redoubles his efforts, massaging Sullivan's scalp, listening to his soft groans of pleasure. 

"You're very good at this," Sullivan slurs into the pillow. His voice has grown quieter now, his breathing shallower. 

"Maybe I should take it up professionally..."

"Maybe you should..."

"Always been told I'm good with my hands."

It is only when Sullivan doesn't come back with an affectionate jibe that Sid realises he must have fallen asleep. He watches the rise and fall of Sullivan's ribs, and listens to the steady, even rhythm of his breathing for a minute or so, before carefully dismounting.

It doesn't feel right to go through Sullivan's things while he's sleeping, but Sullivan is on top of the bedclothes and the early hours of the morning can be cold, even in the summer. Sid needs to find a spare blanket. The ottoman seems like his best bet, so Sid makes a beeline for that, and sure enough, he finds stacks of neatly-folded sheets, alongside a couple of tartan fleeces.

He takes out what is most likely a throw or picnic blanket, draping it over Sullivan and tucking it around him to ensure his bare shoulders aren't exposed to the night air. Then he removes his own shirt and trousers before climbing into the opposite side of the bed and moving in close. 

Sullivan stirs slightly when Sid cups his face, adjusting the angle of his head so that his nose is no longer pressed into the pillow and he can breathe more comfortably. 

"What-"

"Shh," Sid whispers, "don't wake up."

Soothed, Sullivan settles again.

Sid leans across him to switch off the lamp, then wraps one arm around his back and closes his eyes too.


	12. Chapter 12

This time when Sid wakes, the room is still pitch black. 

At some point in the night he seems to have worked his way out of the bedclothes, and he and Sullivan have switched positions. Sullivan is behind him now, his arm around Sid's chest, his front pressed to Sid's back, warm and solid. 

Sid isn't sure whether Sullivan is fully awake, but his hand is wandering over him. Touching, caressing. 

It's nothing overtly sexual, but there is something unexpectedly intimate about it. Sullivan's fingers trace the outline of Sid's chest, moving slowly over each contour as though he's mapping him out, and Sid keeps perfectly still. If he moves, he runs the risk of disturbing Sullivan, and he doesn't want to do that. 

All this time, Sid has been so focused on Sullivan's need to be touched that he has completely neglected to take into account Sullivan's need to touch him. Sid wants to give him that, too. Wants to satisfy him in every way...

It is only when Sullivan shifts against him, pressing impossibly closer and taking a shaky breath, that Sid decides he can't take it any longer. 

"Sullivan?" he whispers. "You awake?"

The hand on his chest stills instantly.

"It's okay," Sid tells him. "You don't have to stop."

"I'm sorry," Sullivan says in a small voice, but he doesn't move. "I shouldn't have-"

"I told you, I don't mind."

In case he's not getting his point across, Sid brings his hand up to cover Sullivan's, intertwining their fingers and pressing down, encouraging him to continue.

After a moment's hesitation, Sullivan does. Cautiously at first, letting Sid's hand guide his, then a little bolder. 

Sid shivers. It feels good; this closeness, this gentle exploration of his body. No one has ever shown him such interest before, and Sid loses himself in it, pushing back against Sullivan until he draws a gasp. 

"You okay?" Sid asks. 

He can feel Sullivan nod against his back. 

"You sure?"

"Yes, I just..."

"What?"

Apparently unable to articulate whatever it is he's feeling, Sullivan gives Sid's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Sid squeezes his hand in return. 

"You know earlier?" Sid begins. "When you said you'd only ever had brief things with other blokes?"

"Mm?"

"Have you ever had the chance to touch anyone like this?"

"No..."

A weight settles in Sid's chest at having his suspicions confirmed, but even as it does, some terrible, selfish part of him takes pleasure in the idea of being Sullivan's first. The first man to take his time with Sullivan, to let Sullivan take his time with him. 

"Have there been a lot of other blokes, over the years?" 

"No, not many. I'm sure compared to your experience, it's rather an embarrassing figure."

There is an edge to Sullivan's voice, something discomfited but inscrutable, and Sid knows better than to press the matter. 

"How d'you cope?" he asks instead. "In between, when you haven't got anyone?"

"How do you think?"

For a second, Sid doesn't catch Sullivan's meaning. Then it clicks.

"Oh," he says, doing his best not to picture Sullivan touching himself, because now really isn't the moment. "That's not much of a substitute, is it?" 

"Not much of one, no."

"Is that what you've always done?"

"Most of the time," Sullivan admits. "It's safer that way. No threat of blackmail, no honey traps. It's just that occasionally the impulse gets too much."

"Yeah..."

"And I know it's hardly worth it, all that risk for just a brief moment of relief, but..." Sullivan trails off. 

"But sometimes you need it," Sid finishes. 

"Yes."

"No wonder you're so tense all the time."

"Please," Sullivan says quietly, pressing his forehead to Sid's back. "Don't laugh at me now. I'm not sure I could bear it."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'd never- I'm _joking_ with you." 

It's an important distinction, but Sullivan doesn't seem convinced. 

"I do realise how pathetic it must sound," he says.

Sid grips Sullivan's hand tighter. "It doesn't sound pathetic."

"I hate myself for it."

"Sullivan-"

"For all of it. For having these sorts of needs in the first place."

"Hey, shh, shh, it's okay."

"If it were as simple as changing my desires with the flick of a switch, I would."

"Yeah, that'd make life easier..."

A long silence, and then Sullivan asks: "Haven't you ever thought about it?"

"Thought about what?"

"Giving up men and only seeing women?"

Sid shrugs. "Yeah, I've thought about it."

"But?"

"But it's part of who I am, I s'pose. Not much sense in denying it."

"Surely if you've got any choice at all, it'd be better to play it safe?"

Play it safe, Sullivan says. As though this is all a game. Perhaps it was once, but it doesn't feel like that anymore. 

"What choice is that?" Sid asks. "Pretend I've never fancied blokes? Stop acting on those urges?"

"I only meant-"

"I know what you meant. If I'm capable of fancying women, why bother with men?"

"Exactly," Sullivan says earnestly. "Why not settle down with a woman?"

"I s'pose I might eventually. If I meet the right woman."

"Then why risk your neck sleeping with men in the meantime?"

"Because what if I meet the right man instead?"

Sullivan falls silent at that. He strokes Sid's side almost absentmindedly, Sid's hand still resting on top of his. After what feels like a long time, Sullivan murmurs, "Do you think you ever could? Fall in love with a man, I mean?"

"Well, you know me, I'm not normally one to get emotionally involved, but if there's a chance I might fall in love with a woman and settle down one day, who's to say the same couldn't happen with a man?"

"But how could it ever work with a man?"

"I dunno." Sid sighs. "I could move away, start again somewhere else."

"And you'd be willing to give up your life here?"

"Why not? I quite like the idea of packing up and going off. If I met a bloke, we could find a new place, somewhere no one knew us, change our names, lie about what we were to each other, and nobody'd be any the wiser..."

"Would you really want to go through all that upheaval?"

Sid exhales deeply, shifting. "Who knows? I'm probably not cut out for anything long-term, anyway."

"No..." says Sullivan, a certain sadness in his tone. 

"How about you? What would you do if you met a man you really fell for?"

"I've never given it much thought." Sullivan says quickly. "I did consider marriage at one point, though."

Not many things surprise Sid, but that admission certainly does. 

"Really?" 

The surprise must have spilt over into his voice, because Sullivan says, "It's not such a ridiculous notion, is it?"

"No, but... why would you want to?"

"Well, it's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? Get married, have children."

"Have you ever even been with a woman?"

"No," says Sullivan. "I tried, before the war. Stepped out with a couple of girls, as one does. Took them to restaurants, to the pictures... But that was as far as it went. I could never quite bring myself to go through with it."

"What, sleeping with them, you mean?"

"Mm. I'm sure the girls' fathers thought I was the perfect gentleman. I'd always have them home by nine, no funny business. All the other boys would brag about how far they'd managed to get with their girlfriends; I didn't even want to try and put my hand on a girl's leg in the back row."

Sid tuts, sliding both of their hands down from his flank to his thigh, and pressing Sullivan's fingers closed around it.

"There," he says, "now you're not missing out."

Sullivan gives a soft laugh. "No, I'm not..."

They lapse into silence, Sullivan's fingers tracing patterns across Sid's skin, stroking the coarse hair of his leg. 

How would Sullivan have fared, being married to a woman? It wouldn't have been much of an existence, living even more of a lie than he already is, but perhaps it would have been safer, more secure. 

"Do you ever regret it?" Sid asks at length. 

"Regret what?"

"Not getting married."

"No... It wouldn't have been fair. I know a lot of men - men like me - I know a lot of them can pretend, can feign interest somehow, but I'm not sure I could've. I wish I had been able to in some ways. It would've made life easier. It would've certainly made my career easier. They don't like to promote single men, you know. The constabulary. To really get on and work your way up through the ranks, you have to be a family man."

Anger surges in Sid's chest. At the police, at Sullivan for staying with them, for enforcing their unjust laws, and upholding these ridiculous standards. But he doesn't want an argument now.

He takes a steadying breath, and asks, "Then how did you manage to make Inspector?"

"By lying through my teeth about being too busy with the war effort to meet a wife."

"Ah," says Sid, as Sullivan strokes up and down his thigh. "Fell for that one, did they?"

"So it would seem."

"Didn't work on me though, did it?"

"No. It didn't work on you."

"I saw through you in two seconds flat."

"I'm glad you did."

"Well, 'course you are," Sid says, reverting to his usual flippancy to try and lighten the mood. "Who wouldn't be glad to take home this fine figure of a man?"

Sullivan huffs out a little laugh, but he says, quite seriously, "I don't know, but I certainly was."

"I'll remember you said that, the next time you insult me."

"I mean it." Sullivan presses a kiss to Sid's shoulder. "I've wanted you since the first time I set eyes on you."

Sid's heart skips a beat. "Yeah?"

"Mm... You were wearing that green shirt, the one with the band collar. You had it unbuttoned so far that it was practically indecent, and I couldn't stop staring."

Sullivan's hand slips down to the inside of Sid's thigh, stroking, and Sid lets out a soft groan.

"I kept looking at your chest," Sullivan continues, voice low, and even through the thick layer of blanket still wrapped around Sullivan's waist, Sid can feel him harden against him. 

"Oh, hello." He reaches back to pull Sullivan in closer.

"I used to imagine it. How it'd feel to touch you." 

"Sullivan-"

"I used to touch myself, thinking about you."

"Christ, Sullivan."

"I never thought I stood a chance. All those women... Valentine told me about your reputation, and I never dreamt you'd be interested in me. I didn't think you'd have any interest in men at all."

"Yeah, well, as it turns out, I'm easy in more ways than one," Sid says, pushing back into the curve of Sullivan's lap. 

Sullivan sucks in a breath. "Don't remind me."

"It's all right, you've got me all to yourself now," says Sid, laughing. 

An involuntary thrust, and another sharp intake of breath, then Sullivan says, "Have I?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Have you been seeing other people since we...?"

The question catches Sid off guard. 

"No," he says, a strange sensation in his chest. "Why? Would it bother you if I had?"

Perhaps Sullivan wouldn't say it under normal circumstances, not if the lights were on, not if Sid could see him. But in the dark, where any looks that might betray them are hidden, he whispers, "Yes."

Heat pools in Sid's stomach. "Want me to knock it on the head for a bit? Just stick to seeing you?"

"Yes," Sullivan practically growls, grabbing at him, grinding against him, rough and urgent. 

Sullivan is jealous, Sid realises belatedly. It shouldn't come as such a shock, and it certainly shouldn't be arousing - perhaps it should be downright alarming - but Sid can't help himself. These past weeks he has spent so much time wondering whether it's really him Sullivan wants, or whether Sullivan would react the same way to any man, and now he finally has his answer. 

"All right," Sid pants, overwhelmed. "I'm all yours, then."

His words earn him a choked-off moan.

"You feel so good," says Sullivan, breath hot against Sid's neck.

"I'd feel even better without that blanket in the way." 

"Hold on."

Sid can't see a thing, but he can feel the cold air at his back when Sullivan pulls away, the shift of the mattress beneath them as Sullivan struggles to disentangle himself from the covers. 

"Shorts," Sid says urgently, reaching down to shed his own boxers, and kicking them to the floor. "Take off your shorts."

He hears the slide of fabric behind him as Sullivan follows suit, then Sullivan is back, plastered to him once again, this time with no barrier between them.

Sid pushes back, desperate to feel. He gets lost in the sensation of it for a while; the heat, the hardness pressing so intimately against him. But he needs more. They both do. 

"Sullivan?"

"What?"

"Need you to fuck me."

Sullivan doesn't respond for a moment, going suddenly still, before he confesses, "I've never done that before, either."

"S'okay. We don't have to do the full works. Just- between my legs. Here, I'll show you."

The springs creak as Sid leans over the edge of the bed, fumbling for his discarded trousers. He retrieves the jar from the pocket and unscrews the lid, dipping his fingers in, spreading some of the lotion across his inner thighs. It's cold, and Sid draws a quiet breath. 

Sullivan must hear him, because he whispers, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. C'mere."

Sid shuffles further up the bed, pulling Sullivan into position behind him. It seems Sullivan is a fast learner. With only the slightest guidance, he aligns their bodies and eases himself between Sid's thighs just where they're thickest. 

"Oh," Sullivan moans into the neckline of his hair, hips pitching forward. "Oh, God."

"Good?"

"Sid..."

The thick length of him feels strange but perfect. Sid shifts one leg forward, and it only takes another couple of tentative thrusts before Sullivan manages to find the right angle. His hand gropes about for Sid's hip, clinging to him, anchoring himself as they begin to move together, establishing a steady rhythm. 

"I wanted you, too, you know," Sid says, as Sullivan rolls his hips. "When I first saw you."

"Sid-"

"I wanted you for ages."

"Please-"

"I didn't like that woman flirting with you at the fete."

He takes hold of Sullivan's hand again, lacing their fingers together, and guiding him down. They moan in unison when Sullivan's hand closes around Sid's cock, squeezing. 

"If I'd known," Sullivan is saying, "if I'd known you wanted me, I'd have taken you away from that wretched fete and had you there and then."

Sid moans. A low, guttural sound that he barely recognises as his own voice. "I'd have let you."

"Sid-"

"I'd have let you do anything to me."

Where Sullivan was moving in time with him before, his thrusts are erratic now. His wrist is working and he is muttering things against Sid's shoulder. Urgent, desperate things; telling Sid how badly he needs him, how he wants him more than he has ever wanted anyone before. He is so fervent that he sounds angry, and Sid knows he can't last. Nothing like this can last. 

"Don't stop," Sid gasps, closing his hand harder around Sullivan's, tightening his grip - _their_ grip - working him together. "Don't stop."

Sullivan doesn't. 

Sid tries to give him some warning, but the intensity of it overcomes him all at once. He freezes, spilling over both of their hands, tensing up around Sullivan until, with a final few thrusts, Sullivan goes over the edge with him. 


	13. Chapter 13

The sound of water hitting the sink seems too loud after the quiet of the bedroom. 

Sid puts the plug in and watches it fill, frowning at the polished taps, and the white suite. Like everything else in Sullivan's cottage, it is immaculate - possibly newly installed when Sullivan took over tenure - and fitted with all mod cons. Hot and cold running water, an upstairs bath and toilet, everything plumbed in. 

Sid's never known the likes of it. In London, he had grown up in one of the Victorian back-to-backs that were long overdue for demolition even before the war started. No windows, and a shared outhouse at the end of the block. When he'd been evacuated to Kembleford, even the modest home comforts of the presbytery had seemed like luxury. 

He can't imagine Sullivan had the same kind of start in life.

Sullivan is far too particular, too fussy. The prospect of sharing a home with rats or rising damp would probably bring him out in a cold sweat. Though what does Sid know about it, really? He's never asked. 

Perhaps it doesn't matter. Why should Sid need to know about Sullivan's past? Sullivan has made a good life for himself here. He has a nice home and a secure job, away from his father. 

Sid can see why Sullivan would be reluctant to give that up. All the talk about upheaval and the cost of starting afresh... Maybe the only reason Sid is more amenable to the idea of leaving things behind is because he's never had much to ground him in the first place.

He cleans himself off quickly in the sink, before returning to the bedroom with a warm flannel. When he gets there, he finds Sullivan still turned on his side, blanket pulled loosely about him, face half obscured by the pillow.

"Hello," Sid says, settling on the edge of the bed.

Sullivan offers him a sheepish smile. "Hello."

"So."

"So..."

"About you not wanting me to make a mess of your clean sheets..."

A laugh that's mostly embarrassment, then Sullivan asks, "Are they that bad?"

"Well, your side's all right, but I wouldn't fancy sleeping on this side if you roll over in the night. Want me to strip the bed and put fresh ones on before I go?"

Sullivan looks up. "Are you going?"

"Yeah, thought I might as well head off now, save trying to wake up again later. Don't want a repeat performance of last time."

"No..."

"'Specially not while we're at yours. We could just about talk our way out of it if you got caught at the caravan, but I dunno what we'd tell people if they saw me sneaking out of here at the crack of dawn."

After taking a moment to consider it, Sullivan says, "We should come up with something."

"Yeah, but first things first, eh?" Sid leans in, holding out the flannel. 

Sullivan reaches for it, but Sid stops him. 

"Here, keep still, I can do it..."

Sullivan's eyes dart about for a moment before he closes them.

"All right?" Sid asks, hesitating where he's started to draw back the blanket, and Sullivan nods his permission. 

That first night in the caravan, Sullivan would never have allowed Sid to see him like this, let alone clean him up, but now he lifts his arm out of the way, granting Sid access, letting him take care of him. It's awkward. In the faded afterglow, with no heat or urgency to distract them, it feels too personal, tending to Sullivan while he's so vulnerable. 

When Sid has finished, he asks, "You okay?"

"Fine," says Sullivan, sounding utterly mortified, and Sid ducks to press a kiss to his forehead before he moves back. 

"Come on, get up, let's get some clothes on, then I'll sort this lot out..."

They dress in silence. Sullivan stands in the corner over by the dresser, facing away from Sid, and Sid knows better than to push his luck. It might be slow progress, getting Sullivan to open up, but at least they seem to be making some. 

Once Sid's got his clothes on, he starts on the bedding, pulling off the sheets and piling them in a heap on the floor. When he opens the ottoman again, Sullivan turns his head, frowning across at him.

"How did you know that's where I keep my sheets?" he asks. 

"Went looking for that blanket for you earlier."

"Ah. Yes, of course." But Sullivan still has a troubled look on his face. 

"Don't worry, I didn't go nosing about. Ottoman was the first place I tried."

"I wasn't worried about that."

"Weren't you?"

"No. Why? _Should_ I have been?"

"I dunno... Strange man in your bedroom, unsupervised... I could've been rifling through your underwear drawer."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"Hey!" says Sid, pretending to take offence. "I'm not a pervert. And anyway, I've already got a pair of your shorts, if that was how I got my kicks."

"Yes, I've still got yours in the airing cupboard. I keep meaning to give them back..."

"Keep 'em. You can wear them to work. Quite like the idea of us going around wearing each other's underwear without anyone knowing."

Sullivan curls his lip in distaste. "You _are_ a pervert."

"There's no need for that..."

"It's the truth."

"I," Sid begins, smiling as he lays the clean sheets out, "am just a red-blooded man, with a healthy interest."

"You're a lecherous rogue, with all the morals of an alley cat."

"Oi!"

"And those," Sullivan concludes, smirking, "are your good points."

Sid collapses into laughter as he folds the sheet around the corner of the mattress. "Well, you're the one who fancies me, so what does that say about you, eh?"

"That I'm beyond help, I imagine."

Sullivan turns back towards the dresser, pulling out the top drawer, searching for something, and Sid bites his lip admiring the view. 

"You free next week?" he asks, tucking the rest of the sheet in. "Or d'you want to cool things off for a bit, make sure no one starts getting suspicious?"

When Sullivan doesn't answer, Sid wonders whether he's said the wrong thing. Reminded him of the danger at a moment when he wanted to feel relaxed. 

"We can leave it, if you want," Sid continues, busying himself with pulling the eiderdown back on. "I mean, there's no rush, is there? You know where to find me."

But Sullivan still doesn't respond. From the drawer, he produces a notebook - his work notebook, it looks like - and a pen. He opens it and writes something on the back page, before tearing it out. 

Sid doesn't realise he's stopped making up the bed until Sullivan turns around to catch him staring. 

"Here," Sullivan says, holding out the torn page, and Sid takes a few steps towards him, reaching across to take it. There is a number scrawled across the front. 

"What-" Sid begins, but Sullivan cuts him off. 

"Call after hours. And check your schedule first. Perhaps we can arrange to meet on a night where we've both got the following day off next time."

"Yeah?" Sid asks, feeling an odd excitement well up in his chest. 

"It'd make a nice change, don't you think? Being able to spend more than a few hours together."

"Yeah," says Sid, "it would."

"Be careful what you say across the line. You never know when one of the operators might be listening in."

"The operators have probably got better things to do than listen in on us rabbiting."

"You'd be surprised. I've had tips come in from the switchboard before."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, I never knew that," says Sid, suddenly a little uneasy about the nature of half the phone calls he's ever made. "In that case, I'll keep it strictly business. Time, date, place. No sweet nothings."

Sullivan eyes him skeptically. "I can't imagine you've ever whispered sweet nothings to anyone in your life."

"Well, no heavy breathing, then."

"That's more like it."

Sid grins, smoothing down the eiderdown and setting the pillows back into place.

"Ta-da," he says, gesturing towards the bed. "There you go. All done."

Sullivan moves to examine his handiwork. After surveying the lumps and the crumpled mess in place of each hospital corner, Sullivan cocks his head and says, "Well, the army wouldn't have you."

"That's all right, I wouldn't wanna join."

"Too slapdash, not enough attention to detail."

"Any more complaints or are you gonna get in?" Sid says, rolling his eyes and drawing back the covers. "Come on, hurry up, we haven't got all night." 

Once Sullivan is settled, Sid leans down for a final kiss. 

"Thank you," Sullivan says, as he drops back onto the pillow. "For all this."

"S'all right."

"Tonight was- nice."

"Good." Sid smiles as he crosses the room. 

"Oh, and Sid?"

"Mm?"

"Try to come up with a plausible excuse, when you ring."

"Okay," Sid says. 

And with that he folds the paper carefully in half, and tucks it away in his pocket before heading out of the door. 

For the rest of the week, he carries it around with him.

Each morning when he dresses, he swaps the neatly folded page over into a clean shirt, and throughout the rest of the day he catches himself patting his pockets down periodically to check it hasn't fallen out. 

Keeping it on him might be risky, but no riskier than leaving it somewhere in the caravan while he's out all day, or copying it into his little black book for anyone with a grudge or a search warrant to find. 

Besides, there is a certain thrill that comes with knowing he has Sullivan's number on him at all times - that theoretically he could ring whenever he liked. 

Not that he can, of course. Not really. 

As Sullivan said, Sid has to call late. Sullivan doesn't get home until the early evening most days, and the hours Sid keeps aren't much better. Sid could cry off work if he ever needed to - he knows Lady F would let him, and maybe he'll rely on that when he has to get a day off to coincide with Sullivan's - but Sid has already decided that it would be best to ring on the night, when he can sneak up to the telephone box in the village square under cover of darkness and talk to Sullivan without fear of interruption. 

So that's what he does. 

He waits until he gets back from collecting Lady F from the train station on Thursday, just after half past nine, before he sets off across the fields. Any earlier and the summer sun wouldn't quite have set, any later and he'll bump into the crowd of regulars getting turfed out of The Red Lion after last orders.

The village is perfectly still as he walks down Fore Street. On the approach, Sid tries to get a look at the telephone box outside the Post Office, and it doesn't appear to be occupied. 

He scouts around anyway, double checking he's alone before he slips inside. He takes the page out of his pocket, unfolding it, and reading over the number he has memorised, just to be sure. Then he picks up the receiver, pressing threepence into the coin slot, turning each number until his finger hits the stopper, and watching the rotary dial swing back.

Once the call connects, it seems to ring for what feels like an eternity before there is a soft click and Sullivan's voice comes down the line. 

"Kembleford 731."

Sid rushes to hit button A. 

"Hello," he says, voice coming out an octave or two lower than intended. 

"Carter." Sullivan drops his polite telephone manner in an instant.

"Sullivan."

"I was beginning to think you'd lost my number."

"Busy week."

"Too busy for a day off?"

"Nope. That's why I'm ringing. I, uh, I heard you needed some help with your motor."

"Did you indeed?" Sullivan asks, sounding amused. 

"Yeah, I did, as it happens. Something about a stiff gear stick."

"Carter," Sullivan says, a warning note in his voice.

"Probably just the gearbox that needs oiling."

"I'll have to take your word for it."

"I'll make sure I bring a can of lubricant."

" _Carter._ "

This time Sullivan sounds like he's going to throttle Sid the next time he claps eyes on him, so in the name of self-preservation, Sid elects to change the subject. 

"Want me to come round and take a look, then?"

"I suppose you'd better."

"What day suits you?"

"Sunday. This is my weekend to work, but that means I'll be home by Sunday evening with any luck."

"You off Monday?" Sid asks, before hastily adding: "Could be a long job. I might need to come back."

"Yes, I'm off Monday. Can you get away?"

"Turns out I'm due some holiday," Sid lies, knowing he'll call in a favour from Lady F. No need to worry Sullivan with the details... 

"Right. Same time as before?"

"Fine."

"I'll see you Sunday." 

"Mm, see you then," Sid says, beaming into the receiver before hanging up. 


	14. Chapter 14

Sid doesn't get the chance to speak to Lady F on Friday. 

Monty has not long returned from his latest business trip and - with the exception of Hornby and a few of the maids - he doesn't like the help wandering the house, so Sid steers well clear for most of the day. 

In the evening, he manages to corner Lady Felicia in the drawing room and is about to ask for his time off when Monty blunders in, searching for his papers and complaining about estate tax. Lady F shoots Sid an apologetic look and Sid gives it up as a bad job, deciding that he'll talk to Lady F in the morning, but on Saturday, it's Lady F who finds him. Before his shift has started, while he's finishing off his cigarette near the entrance to the kitchens...

It comes as something of a relief, truth be told. One of the new kitchen maids - Enid - has started getting a bit friendly, and for the first time in his life, Sid has had to play ignorant in order to avoid her advances. He's been hiding out by the outbuildings for the last few minutes, smoking his roll-up down to the filter, and not daring to venture back inside even to scrounge food. 

His behaviour won't have gone unnoticed by the old hands who already know him. Sid Carter, the ladies' man, refusing to play along when a pretty woman makes eyes at him - that's bound to raise a few eyebrows. He thinks a couple of the footmen might have already cottoned on, and it will only be a matter of time before he has to give them a reason.

Should he tell them he's spoken for? He wouldn't have to elaborate and they probably wouldn't press the issue. 

Sid is pushing thirty. Not old by anyone's standards, but arguably past the point where he should still be playing the field. It would be believable, wouldn't it?

As Sullivan said, there comes a time when even the wanderers are expected to settle down, where it starts to look suspicious if they don't...

It creeps up on you. Age, and the slow changes that come with it. Where Sid could once collapse onto the bed and sleep where he fell, his is neck hurts if he lies at a funny angle now. The caravan bed is too short and narrow, and his bones ache when the cold weather sets in. He can't even drink everyone under the table at The Red Lion these days without paying the price the next morning. 

No one can keep up that pace of life forever. 

Perhaps Sid really should consider settling down. He doesn't want to wind up one of those pathetic old men, pestering the barmaids down the local every night. That can creep up on you, too: the loneliness and isolation that comes with having no ties, with never getting attached. Sid has always stumbled through life without much of a plan, but everyone needs a plan in the end...

He should tell them he's spoken for.

He supposes he is, in a manner of speaking. Sullivan had asked him not to see anybody else for the foreseeable, and Sid intends to keep his word.

He takes a final drag, checking the door to the kitchen to make sure Enid hasn't managed to track him down. Just when he's starting to think he might be getting an insight into how it must feel to be Sullivan, Lady F pokes her head around the door instead. 

"Sid!" she calls. "I've been hunting high and low for you."

"Why?" asks Sid, flicking away his cigarette butt and trying not to appear too eager. "What've I done now?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. But the latest chapter of my book is finished and I was hoping you could be my test audience."

"Oh," says Sid, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach and heading inside. 

He lets her drag him into the study, and okay, maybe Lady F's romance novels aren't much cop, but being subjected to one of her readings is the lesser of two evils in this case, at least. 

He sits in Monty's old office chair, spinning slightly, and tunes out the first part. Not intentionally, he's just distracted thinking about the idea of settling into a static life of responsibility.

It's what everyone else wants, isn't it? Stability, someone and somewhere to call home. It's what Sid is supposed to want. But then, Sid has never wanted what he's supposed to. 

Marriage, kids... That would be the easiest option. The path of least resistance, as they say, and isn't that what most people try to take? 

But maybe Sid isn't most people. Maybe Sid is defective - wired wrong - because he wants men the same way he wants women. And worst of all, he wants Sullivan. Far more than he should, and for far longer than just the few short hours they usually manage to steal.

If Sullivan wanted him for longer than just the foreseeable, then Sid could give up the one night stands altogether. 

It's not about settling or familiarity; he can see it with an odd sense of clarity now. He's fallen for Sullivan. He likes their easy banter, and the strange sense of belonging he feels when they're together.

The logistics of it wouldn't actually matter. Whether they had to pack up, ship out, and move around forever, or whether they found somewhere to stay and set up home, Sid thinks he could be happy, either way. 

Of course, that's probably not what Sullivan wants...

_"Reginald swept her up in his strong arms, holding her to his sculpted, muscular chest, and kissing her passionately, his loins ablaze,"_ Lady F's voice cuts through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. _"He'd never had such carnal want for a washerwoman before, but Millie was different. Long, auburn hair cascaded down her pale shoulders, accentuating her full breasts._

_"'Oh, Reginald,' Millie cried._

_Unable to resist her charms any longer, he carried her off to his bed,_ " Lady Felicia concludes, setting her manuscript down on Monty's leather-topped desk and turning to Sid. "Well? What do you think?" 

Sid tries to arrange his features into an appropriate expression, but he isn't entirely sure what that expression should be. He isn't entirely sure about anything at all in that moment, so with a tight-lipped smile, he nods and says, "Very, uh... vivid?"

"Thank you," says Lady F, bowing her head modestly. "I'll be sending it off to the publishing house as soon as the final draft is complete. Only two more chapters to go. I'd take it down to try out on Mrs. M first, but I don't think she'd appreciate it."

Sid thinks that might be the understatement of the century, and that Mrs. M would probably advocate for burning every copy if it ever went to print, but all he says is: "Yeah, not really Mrs. M's cup of tea..."

"I'll be too busy anyway. She wants me to call in on Monday and help get things underway for the WI's photography day trip, so that'll take up most of the afternoon, I expect. Apparently, they're making a charity calendar to put on sale before Christmas. Views of the British countryside."

Sid pulls a face. "I can think of more interesting subject matters."

An arch of her eyebrow, and Lady F says, "I'm sure you can."

"I'm just saying, if the point is to raise money... Other themes might sell better."

"I think the point is to raise money without causing a scandal."

"Shame," says Sid. "Could've asked the nurses at the cottage hospital if they'd be willing to help out for a good cause."

"Well, scantily-clad women would certainly be more interesting than twelve pages of wretched oak trees and hills again," Lady F agrees. 

Sid gives her a sideways glance, waiting for her to say something more, but when she doesn't, he leans over to nudge her elbow, saying, "Hey, maybe you should put it in the suggestion box for next year."

Lady F suppresses a smile. "I would if I could disguise my handwriting."

" _I'll_ write it, you just take it with you to the meeting and slip it in when no one's looking." 

"You're on. Just don't let the Inspector catch you lusting after nurses..."

"No crime in looking," Sid says, though the thought gives him pause for a moment. What if Sullivan _would_ mind him looking? He doesn't want Sid seeing other people. What if he's more serious about this than Sid thought? They should discuss it. Next time, they should have a proper conversation... It's only then that Lady F's earlier words finally register. "Wait, do you need me to drive you over to Mrs. M's _this_ Monday?"

"Well, I wasn't planning to trudge through the fields in my silk Diors..."

"What time?" he asks, and Lady F looks up. 

"After lunch." 

"And what time would you need me to pick you up?"

"I'm sorry, Sidney, is there somewhere else you need to be?" she asks, frowning at him.

"Sort of."

"Go on, what pressing engagement have you got that takes precedence over work?"

" _Might've_ told Sullivan I had Sunday and Monday booked as annual leave..."

"I see," she says with a smile and a glint in her eye. "And is there any particular reason you need _two_ days off?"

"He's invited me to stay the night," says Sid, embarrassed after the words are out by the note of excitement in his voice. "Going round Sunday after work and stopping over. To fix his motor, of course." 

"Oh, of course." 

"That's the official line, anyway."

"What's the unofficial line?"

"Just, y'know. Be good to get a bit of time together instead of having to rush off after..."

"Well, in that case I'm sure I can get Hornby to drive me over to Mrs. M's. I wouldn't want to deny you your day of... auto repairs."

Sid laughs. "Night _and_ a day of 'auto repairs', if I'm lucky."

"I say! Now _there's_ an idea for my next novel! A handsome young mechanic, servicing the fleet of cars owned by a local Lord, until one day the Lord demands he service more than just his vehicles."

"If you ever write that book, Sullivan will murder us both and hide all the evidence."

But Lady F is laughing as well. 

"Naturally, I'd change the names," she tells him. "Yours and mine, I'd have to use a nom de plume if I were going to branch out into _that_ sort of pulp fiction."

"Oh, well, that's all right then."

"He'd make a good romantic hero, though, don't you think? The Inspector. Tall, dark, and brooding..."

"Give over," Sid scoffs. "Sullivan's not brooding, he's just a miserable sod."

"Well, I suppose it rather shatters the illusion, getting to know him as intimately as you have..."

"Nah, he's all right, underneath it all. Not like he is in public, y'know... When we're alone sometimes he's-" Sid breaks off, sniffs. "Well, I dunno. I mean, he still gets up my nose sometimes, but he's not so bad, really."

Lady Felicia's smile remains fixed in place, but a crease in her brow tinges the expression with tenderness, and Sid realises he has given too much of himself away.

"Sid..." she begins, but whatever she is about to say, Sid doesn't think he can stand to hear it. 

"Anyway," he interrupts, getting to his feet. "I'd better go and get the car ready."

"All right..."

"Thanks. For giving me the day off."

"You're welcome," says Lady F, and Sid almost makes it to the door before she calls out, "Sid?"

"Mm?"

"Take Sunday off as well. You'll need to conserve your energy, from the sounds of it."

Sid nods his thanks this time, but doesn't speak again, not trusting his voice to hold steady long enough to get the words out. 


	15. Chapter 15

Sid is early.

Only by ten minutes or so, if he's read his watch correctly in the dim light of the last lamppost he passed. Nothing unusual for most people, but Sid is seldom early for anything. Truth be told, he's generally lucky if he's even on time, arriving to most appointments in a rush, and by the skin of his teeth. 

He pulls his sleeve back down over his watch, checking his reflection in the darkened window panes of the other houses as he approaches Sullivan's cottage. 

He isn't much of one for vanity, either. Not usually. Never the type to fuss about his hair or waste money on expensive clothes. A bit of Brylcreem and a quick flick back with a comb is more his style. Then throw on anything that smells clean...

But he has taken longer than he'd care to admit picking out tonight's outfit.

Yesterday he had laid out his favourite shirts on the bed, tried a few of them on with his best trousers, checking which combination worked best. He'd settled on his grey trousers and his red and green checked shirt, then packed a second outfit in his holdall, along with a change of underwear, his toothbrush, and a tube concealed in a cut to the lining.

It's best to be prepared. He doesn't want to pressure Sullivan into anything, but they have the next twenty-four hours together, and they might get carried away. 

When he gets to the back door, he finds it unlocked again, and presses the handle down slowly, slowly. 

This is dangerous territory. 

He had debated bringing anything along at all. Body lotion is one thing, but an overnight bag and something acquired on the black-market with no prescription might just prove too difficult for even Sid to talk his way out of.

There is an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kind of nervousness he'd felt the first time he'd slept with a man, years ago, back when he was still young and inexperienced enough for it to seem intimidating.

All this risk... How much longer can they realistically keep it up?

Inside, he finds the kitchen in darkness, with the only light coming from the doorway to the living room, along with the faint sound of jazz across the wireless. 

Sid carefully sets the holdall down on the floor, shrugging off his leather jacket and hanging it on one of the coat hooks. He turns the key gently in the lock behind him before tiptoeing through.

Over the top of a blue wingback chair, he can see Sullivan facing away from the door, too absorbed in listening to his music to notice the odd flicker of shadow or creak of floorboards. 

Really, someone should probably give the man a refresher course in his police training, because Sid manages to creep up behind him unseen.

Reaching around, he covers Sullivan's eyes with his hands.

"Guess who," he says as Sullivan nearly jumps out of his skin, seizing hold of Sid's wrists instinctively. 

"Carter!" Sullivan chastises, half relieved, half annoyed, once he's had a split-second to process the situation. 

"Bit edgy this evening, aren't you?"

"If you ever sneak up on me like that again, I'll give you a good hiding."

"That a threat or a promise?"

"It's a threat," says Sullivan, releasing his grip, and Sid laughs, letting his hands slip down Sullivan's neck to his shoulders, gently kneading. 

"Missed me?"

"No," Sullivan says quickly, though Sid can hear the smirk in his voice, even if he can't see his face from this angle. "As a matter of fact, I was rather enjoying the peace and quiet until you turned up."

"Oh, well, if you don't want me here, I can go..."

"Well, I suppose, as you're already here, you might as well stay."

"No, no, it's all right," says Sid, affecting a wounded tone. "I know when I'm not wanted." 

Sid withdraws his hands, retreating from the chair and Sullivan is on his feet in an instant. " _Carter._ "

"What?" 

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Just told you. If you'd rather spend your evening listening to the _radio..._ "

"I didn't say that."

"Well, make up your mind," Sid says, licking his lips, and cocking his head. "Night's still young. If you don't want me, I can go out, find someone who does..."

Sullivan starts to advance on him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" 

"No."

"And if I walk out of that door now, you'll do what, exactly?" Sid asks, starting to laugh. 

"I'll stop you."

"Oh, yeah?" Sid raises his eyebrows. "How're you gonna do that, then?"

"Come here and you'll find out."

Sullivan makes a grab for him, but Sid ducks out of the way, grinning. 

"What's the matter? Don't fancy sharing?" Sid taunts, stumbling slightly as he backs away with Sullivan in hot pursuit. 

"No, I don't."

"Only child, were you?"

"Yes, as it happens."

"I can tell." Sid dodges another of Sullivan's attempts to grab him, the thrill of winding Sullivan up flooding his body with adrenaline. "Still, it'd be selfish to keep me all to yourself, don't you think? 'Specially seeing as how you don't appreciate me."

"I said come _here._ " 

"Make me," Sid says as he makes a bolt for the stairs, starting up them before Sullivan gets the chance to block his exit. 

Sullivan runs after him. Sid can hear his footsteps thundering behind him, out of sync with the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, gaining ground as they tear up the stairs and across the landing. 

"Ow! Gerroff!" Sid yelps when Sullivan finally catches up with him in the doorway to the bedroom, yanking him back by the tail of his shirt. 

"What was it you were saying?" Sullivan asks, breathless against Sid's neck, holding him in a bear hug. 

But Sid can't resist. "I said, I'll let someone else have a turn."

And at that, Sullivan tackles him onto the bed, knocking the breath out of both of them. They tussle for a moment, struggling for dominance, gasping and giggling, but it's Sullivan who comes out on top.

He flattens Sid, straddling his hips, and pinning his wrists to the mattress either side of his head.

Sid groans.

"Still thinking of going somewhere?" Sullivan asks. 

Sid pushes up against his grip, but with surprising strength, Sullivan presses down harder still, and Sid collapses back onto the bed with a bitten-off moan.

"Come on, Carter. You can do better than that."

Sullivan's right. If Sid really wanted to get away, he probably could. At the very least, he could knock Sullivan's arms out from under him and throw him off balance for long enough to try.

But Sid doesn't want to get away. Sid is exactly where he wants to be.

And Sullivan must know it too, because he gives a slow roll of his hips, and whispers, "If you give up that easily, I might start to think you're enjoying this..."

The evidence that Sid is enjoying it is pressing up against Sullivan, half-hard and trapped between their bodies. Unmissable. Sid could tell himself it's the weight of Sullivan on top of him, or the way Sullivan's thighs tighten around him as he tries to maintain his balance, but Sid knows that's only half true. Sullivan's words are what's really affecting him.

He wants Sullivan to want him; he likes that edge of jealousy in Sullivan's voice. Nobody has ever wanted Sid enough to ask for his loyalty before, and he knows it's all a game, that they're just playing, but if there is even a grain of truth in it, then that's enough. It has to be enough.

"You're mine now, Carter," Sullivan murmurs, as if he understands Sid's need instinctively, though perhaps it is more that their needs are complementary. "I won't let you go."

"Sullivan-" Sid chokes out.

But Sullivan holds Sid in place, moving against him until Sid is writhing helplessly beneath him.

"Keep still."

"Yeah," Sid pants. "Yeah, okay..."

Sullivan lets go of Sid's wrists in favour of running his hands over Sid's sides, his stomach, all the way up to his chest, and Sid finds himself tensing his muscles, just a little self-conscious. Not that Sullivan seems to mind. He is lost in it, frowning and biting his lip as he rocks his hips. There is a look in his eyes that Sid has never seen directed at him before. A hunger so intense he feels exposed.

When Sullivan braces himself on Sid's chest, fingers splayed so that he can grind harder against him, Sid groans again. The weight of him bearing down is almost too much, but Sid can take it. Sid wants to take it. His hands come up to settle on Sullivan's waist, gripping him, holding him steady, even as his own arms shake. 

"I wouldn't really," Sid begins, only too aware that he is fishing, hoping to prompt Sullivan to talk again. "I wouldn't spend the night with anyone else. Not if you didn't want me to."

"And if I never want you to?"

Another low moan, and Sid shakes his head, unable to answer.

Sid knows Sullivan doesn't mean it. In the heat of the moment, people will say anything, whatever they think you want to hear just to keep the momentum going. That doesn't make it true.

Still, Sid can't help what Sullivan's words do to him. He sucks in a breath. Holds it. Tries to clear his mind to stave off his climax. He needs to close his eyes. The sight of Sullivan on top of him is overwhelming, and all Sid can think about is how good it would feel to fuck Sullivan this way - to let him ride him, use him, _claim_ him - but Sid can't look away now. This is the closest Sullivan has ever come to letting go, and Sid has to remember every last detail in case it never happens again.

"Sullivan," he grits out, voice desperate even to his own ears. "I can't _-"_

Above him, Sullivan hisses, leaning harder, moving faster. He slides one trembling hand up Sid's throat to cup his jaw with such tenderness that Sid stiffens, letting out a desperate, wordless sound as he comes. He drops back spent against the eiderdown, warmth spreading in his trousers.

Through the haze, he watches Sullivan close his eyes and press the heel of his hand to the front of his own trousers, digging it in hard. Hard enough to hurt, maybe. The stretch of his thighs must be starting to burn too by now, and Sid moves his hands down to rub them.

It's uncomfortable, the frantic shift of fabric against Sid's sensitive skin. He wants to push Sullivan back to sit lower on his thighs instead, but he doesn't get the chance. Within seconds Sullivan stills, clinging to Sid's chest as he follows him over the edge with a gasp.

Then he's sinking forwards, withdrawing one leg so that he can slump at Sid's side, half draped across him.

"You all right?" Sid asks, breathless.

Sullivan nods against his shoulder.

"Well, that was... different."

"Mm," Sullivan agrees.

"Last time I get dressed up for you, though. These trousers are gonna be bleedin' ruined by the time I get them home."

"I'll put them in to soak," Sullivan mumbles into Sid's skin. After a long pause, broken only by their harsh, staccato breaths, he adds: "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Get dressed up for me?"

"Figure of speech," says Sid. "Anyway, I've got spares. Brought a change of clothes in my bag."

"What bag?"

"The one I left in the kitchen."

"What's in it?"

"Just a few bits."

"Not planning on moving in, are you, Carter?" Sullivan says, starting to sound sleepy. 

And Sid knows it's just a joke, a throwaway comment, part of their usual repartee, but his innards twist nonetheless. It serves as a cruel reminder of the kind of life they could never have.

"Nah, don't worry, you're safe," Sid says, playing along anyway. "I'd better go and get it. Make a start on getting us cleaned up. Trust me, you don't want to leave this to dry overnight."

He pulls away, and Sullivan grimaces, though whether it's at the loss of contact or at Sid's turn of phrase, it's difficult to say.

"Back in a minute," Sid tells him, and disappears out onto the sanctuary of the empty landing. 


	16. Chapter 16

The thing no one tells you about taking the path less travelled is that you walk it largely alone. 

Having certain preferences means you're marked out as different, someone who doesn't quite belong. It is something you feel before you are able to articulate it, that sense of displacement.

There have been jokes over the years about Father Brown's tendency to take in the waifs and strays, and, like most jokes at someone else's expense, the punchline lands best when it's based in a harsh truth. 

Sid knows he's one of them. A stray. One of the Father's lost souls.

Sid has never belonged. 

He has been running away for as long as he can remember. Not always from the same thing, but always from something. Angry shopkeepers, The Blitz, pain, loss, scorned husbands, ex-business associates, his own desires, the long arm of the law... 

His reflection stares back at him from the vanity mirror, tired and dishevelled, as he washes himself off in the sink. 

All this time spent running and somehow he's wound up here; in Sullivan's bathroom, in Sullivan's bed. 

It would be a lie to say that Sid can't see the funny side. Really, you've got to laugh. What started out as a bit of fun has culminated in Sid shivering alone in the bathroom of the police cottage, wondering how he's going to deal with yet another loss when all this is over. 

He'll do the honourable thing, of course. Step aside, pretend it doesn't matter, play it off as if he never cared to begin with. That's what he always does. It's the only thing to do, isn't it? And if some awful, selfish part of him doesn't want to let go, wants to ask Sullivan for more, then Sid won't give voice to it. 

He drains the sink before refilling it with fresh water, watching it swirl around the white porcelain. 

This really is a nice cottage. 

What Sullivan said about career progression, about how lucky he is that he ever got promoted in the first place, given his marital status... Sid knows he can't interfere with that. Sullivan has worked hard to earn this. Whatever Sid might want, whatever Sid feels now - Sullivan has stopped running. It would be unfair to risk ruining both of their lives. 

Sid tests the temperature of the water with his wrist before turning off the taps, and pulling on his clean shorts. 

When he steps back into the bedroom, he puts his holdall down in the corner, before gesturing towards the door, saying, "your turn." He crawls into bed again, drawing up the eiderdown around his shoulders to try to banish the cold that has crept into the very core of him, while Sullivan goes off to clean himself up. 

By the time Sullivan returns, warm and smelling faintly of Imperial Leather, Sid's almost stopped shaking. 

"Sid?"

"Mm?"

But Sullivan doesn't seem to have a question. He moves in close, tucking his head into the crook of Sid's neck, draping his arm across his chest, wanting to be held. 

What can Sid do but oblige?

They lie in silence, Sullivan stroking Sid's skin, his breath warm against Sid's collarbone. After a few minutes, Sullivan's hand finds Sid's necklace, playing with it, fingertips tracing the engraving of Saint Christopher. 

"Do you always wear this?" Sullivan asks quietly, threading his fingers through the chain. 

"Most of the time."

"Patron Saint of travellers?"

"And drivers."

"Really?"

"Mm."

"Very apt."

"Yeah," says Sid. "Patron Saint of bachelors an' all."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

"No wonder you wear it."

"Yeah, well... Thought I could do with a bit of extra protection, walking over here tonight."

A long pause, then Sullivan asks: "Do you believe in all that?" 

He tucks the pendant back beneath the covers, raking his fingers through Sid's chest hair instead. 

Sid shrugs. "Yeah."

"You never struck me as the religious sort."

"Well, I'm not exactly devout, but y'know... Brought up that way, and the Father does his best to coax me into church from time to time." Sid shifts, angling his head so he can see Sullivan better. "What about you? I know you're not religious now, but did you ever...?"

"No."

"Your parents weren't religious, then?"

"They were." 

"But you didn't buy into it?"

"Well, I disagree with my father on everything else, why not add that to the list?" Sullivan says, putting on an air of amused nonchalance, though there is a note of bitterness to his voice he can't keep out.

"Was it just to get back at your father?"

"No. I don't know. I was never particularly convinced by it, not even as a boy. It struck me as rather stupid. A book of fables... I always preferred to put my faith in things I could see, things there was some evidence of."

"Ah, but then that's not faith, is it?" says Sid. 

A sideways glance and a wry smile from Sullivan. "You've been spending too much time around Father Brown."

Sid returns his smile. "Maybe. Choosing to put your trust in God is sort of the point, though, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Yeah. I seem to remember that from one of his homilies."

Sullivan stifles a laugh against Sid's skin, shaking his head.

"What?" asks Sid.

"Nothing."

"No, c'mon, what's so funny?"

"I just find it hard to imagine you sitting in church, listening to all that claptrap while keeping a straight face."

"Father Brown's homilies aren't _that_ bad. And anyway, it's a good way to meet women, chatting them up after the service..."

"Sid!"

"What?"

"You're a moral degenerate!"

"Yeah," Sid agrees, chuckling softly. "Worked in your favour though, didn't it?"

"What did?"

"Me having no morals. Not many morally upstanding men who'd be up for shagging another bloke."

"No..." Sullivan swallows, looks away. 

"Hey, c'mon, I didn't mean-"

"No, no, you're quite right," says Sullivan, voice tight, and Sid knows he's struck a nerve. "I'm not labouring under any misapprehensions about what I am."

"I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know you didn't. Still... Doesn't make it any less true. My father tried to instill a strong sense of right and wrong in me, but I could never quite overcome that particular moral failing."

"It's not a failing," Sid says quietly, cursing himself for being so stupid. 

"It was in my father's eyes. He was always clear what his thoughts were on the subjects of sexual perversion and moral decay. Anyone with those sorts of tendencies was an aberration."

"Sullivan..."

"I sometimes wonder if he suspected. I mean, he couldn't have _known -_ even I didn't know, not then - but deep down, perhaps he had a sense of it without being consciously aware... I was always such a fussy child, and you know the sort names that get bandied around about boys like that. I don't think my father ever got to hear what they called me, but if he had any idea at all, I should think all that fire and brimstone was intended to frighten it out of me."

Sid's hand closes tighter around Sullivan's shoulder, thumb rubbing.

"It's not something you can scare out of someone," he says.

"No, I know it isn't."

"It's just... part of who you are."

"Mm," Sullivan agrees. "An aberration."

"No," Sid says, biting back on the anger he feels rising in his chest. "You're _not._ "

"That's what my father thinks. It's what the church thinks."

"Yeah, well, maybe the church is wrong."

Sullivan looks up. "Do you really believe that?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do you attend?"

"'Cause- I dunno. I s'pose I find it comforting," Sid says. "Not the fire and brimstone lark, obviously, but there being a God. A heaven. Getting to see everyone again. Don't you find that comforting?"

"No, I don't," Sullivan mutters darkly. "I always found it more comforting to believe there's nothing after death."

Some missing piece of the puzzle slots into place and Sid thinks he finally understands Sullivan better now. His attitude isn't born of genuine conceit; it's a form of protection. Sullivan is doing what he always does: putting on a show of arrogance, of superiority, to convince the world he knows better, when really he's struggling even to convince himself. 

"Because of what the church says?" Sid asks, holding onto him tighter. 

"Because it's been bad enough on this earth. I can't think of anything less comforting than the prospect of this stretching on for eternity."

There is such sadness in Sullivan's eyes that the anger in Sid's chest turns to pain. 

"Maybe it's different in heaven," Sid offers. 

Sullivan inclines his head, considering. "Maybe."

"And how about me?" Sid asks, prompting Sullivan to look up at him again. "Wouldn't you want to see me again?"

"If there is a heaven, then that won't be where I'm going, will it? Not if the good book is to be believed."

"Well, if that's the case, neither will I."

"Oh, you'll be all right," Sullivan says, tone suddenly lighter. "You've got the advantage over the rest of us, haven't you? You've got Father Brown on your side. Even if the church is right, you can confess all your sins at the last minute, pretend to repent, and he'll absolve you."

At the low rumble of Sid's laughter against him, Sullivan allows himself a gentle laugh too. 

"I don't think that's how it works," says Sid. 

"But you don't fear it," Sullivan says, a question in his voice. "Judgement. Whatever comes after..."

"No. I don't think God'd care about who you took to bed, as long as all parties were happy. There's bigger stuff to worry about than that, isn't there?" 

"You don't think it's hypocritical, to believe in God then go against His teachings? That you're picking and choosing the bits that suit you?"

"Isn't that what we're all doing?"

Sullivan shifts against Sid's chest. "My job, you mean?"

"Mm."

"You think it's wrong of me to work for the police when I'm breaking the law?"

"I don't think it's wrong. I just find it hard to get my head 'round. If you don't believe in what you're doing, then why are you still doing it?"

"I do believe in it." A pause. "Most of it, anyway."

"But you know better than anyone that the law gets it wrong sometimes."

"And other times, it gets it right."

"Ah, but the point is: you have to enforce it all the time."

"Yes."

"Even when you know it's wrong."

"Yes..."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me, but what choice do I have?" Sullivan sighs. "I'm not like you, I can't just give everything up at the drop of a hat. I've got responsibilities. It's my livelihood."

"There're other ways of making money."

A raised eyebrow. "Yes, I know perfectly well what some of your methods are..."

"Legitimate ways," Sid amends. 

"Still, they don't come with any guarantees."

"No guarantees in life."

"No, but you know what I mean," says Sullivan. And the worst part is Sid does. He knows exactly what Sullivan means. "I need certain assurances. A steady income, a home."

"Yeah," Sid says. "I know it's not as easy as that."

"This job comes with so many ties. You have to get to know the community you serve, form attachments no matter how tenuous. You become part of it, and then you have to set an example. You're a _pillar_ of the community. Everyone knows you, and everyone has expectations. If I had my time over again, perhaps I'd do things differently. A different career, a different place..."

There is a fluttering sensation in Sid's chest. "You'd really want to give it all up if you had the chance?"

"I don't know. I think about it sometimes."

"Do you?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"What would you do? If you left, I mean."

"I don't know. I suppose that's half the trouble."

"But if you had the means, you might leave?"

Sullivan shrugs. "I might. Sometimes, I find myself wishing I was just a little more disconnected. God knows, it gets lonely enough as it is, but if I had fewer responsibilities, no duty to anyone but myself, it wouldn't matter so much if I lived my life the way I wanted to. It might be less lonely, somehow."

"Yeah..."

"Sometimes it feels like I'm surrounded by people, yet I'm still completely alone. Does that make sense?"

"Makes sense to me." Sid knows that feeling only too well. If it wasn't for Lady F, he wouldn't have anyone he could truly confide in. "You can never really be yourself in front of other people."

"Exactly. There are so many different versions of yourself that you present to the world, all of them watered down, diluted in some way... I could talk to a dozen people in a day, and not a single one of them really knows me. And I can never let them. It's..."

"Shit?" Sid suggests. 

"Isolating. It starts to eat away at you, never being seen, never being accepted. And then, of course, you have to hide the loneliness from people, too. You can't let anyone know you're so desperate."

"Needing a bit of company isn't desperate."

"No, but as soon as people can see that you need something, you're at an immediate disadvantage. They've got leverage, something they can use against you."

"Is that really how you see the world?"

"It's true."

"It won't do you any good, thinking like that."

"Perhaps not," Sullivan agrees, "but it's safer. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"How d'you mean?"

"Well, you. The way you are. You always maintain a certain distance. Never get too attached... "

Something squirms uncomfortably in the pit of Sid's stomach. Maybe it's true, but no one has ever said it outright before.

"I get attached," he says, frowning. "I mean, maybe I've always had itchy feet, but I care about people."

"Oh, yes, Father Brown and Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy. But you never let yourself get too involved with anyone else." When Sid's hand goes still on him, Sullivan hastily adds: "It's not a criticism. I've always rather admired it. The way you're so carefree. Never settling."

It may not have been intended as a criticism, but it still lands like a punch to the gut.

"I could settle. If someone asked, I could-" Sid hesitates, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Look, I know I'm flighty, but it's not 'cause I don't care. S'just... I dunno. A vicious circle."

"In what way?"

"Everything always changes, everyone leaves, one way or another. Sometimes it's just easier to leave first."

"Is that what you do?"

Sid purses his lips, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't mean to."

"I always thought you preferred to keep things casual."

"S'what everyone thinks," Sid says. "Maybe I do, in some ways, I dunno. I have my fun. But in the end people start to think that's all you're after, that you're just a leg-over merchant. No good, y'know..."

"That's just small-minded gossip."

"Nah." Sid shakes his head. "No one's ever thought I was up to much."

"Well, they're wrong," Sullivan says, and somehow it catches Sid off guard.

"You reckon?"

"Yes. I do."

"Never expected to hear that from you..."

This time it's Sullivan's turn to tighten his grip on Sid's chest. "Difficult as it might be to believe, I do actually rather like you."

The beginning of a smile tugs at the corner of Sid's lips. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're not so bad yourself, I s'pose. Sometimes."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Really, that's... deeply flattering."

"I try."

It's Sullivan who breaks first, starting to laugh. Then Sid is laughing, too, at their words, at the absurdity of it all. 

Their laughter dies down, and Sullivan leans up on one elbow, expression plaintive, before he dips his head to kiss Sid. Sid takes a shuddering breath through his nose, hands coming up to cradle Sullivan's face, pulling him harder against him, until their teeth collide and Sullivan shifts halfway on top of him and they have no need for words anymore. 


	17. Chapter 17

For a split-second when Sid wakes up, he forgets where he is.

The light is coming from the wrong direction, the sheets smell like washing powder and starch, and he is sprawled out on his front, rather than curled up within the confines of the caravan bed. Then he remembers: he's still at Sullivan's.

He rolls over, stretching out, yawning. The other side of the bed is empty, but Sullivan can't have gotten far, so for a few minutes Sid allows himself to luxuriate in the feel of expensive cotton and the comfort of the perfectly sprung mattress.

Memories of last night come back to him, fractured, stilted. The weight of Sullivan on top of him, the look in his eyes as he'd moved in to kiss him. 

The bed is warm, and Sid would be loath to get up at all if it wasn't for the clinking of crockery and the smell of cooking that has started to drift up through the floorboards. Bacon and fried egg...

A quick glance at the alarm clock reveals that it's gone nine and Sid forces himself to go and investigate.

He pulls on his clean trousers and a shirt that he doesn't bother to fasten over his vest and stumbles downstairs, only to find Sullivan in the kitchen, leaning over the stove, surrounded by pots and pans.

"'Mornin'," Sid says, propping himself up against the doorjamb.

"Ah, you're up." Sullivan turns around. He is wearing a plain blue apron and holding a spatula, and he looks every bit the dutiful housewife. Under normal circumstances, Sid might tease him a bit, the way he'd teased Father Brown the first time he'd seen him in that floral pink abomination of his, but there is something touching about Sullivan taking the trouble to cook for him, and the affectionate insults stick in Sid's throat.

Sid takes a couple of steps into the room. "What's all this, then?"

"Breakfast."

"Bacon and egg?"

"The Full English."

Another few steps and he is behind Sullivan. "Could smell it from upstairs."

"Yes, I thought that might finally get you out of bed," Sullivan says. "Hungry?" 

"Famished," says Sid, placing a hand on either side of Sullivan's hips and leaning in to peer over his shoulder. "Blimey, if I'd known you could cook, I'd've been round here weeks ago." 

Sullivan flips the rashers over, gently shaking the frying pan. "I don't doubt you would."

Perhaps Sullivan just happens to keep a well-stocked fridge and pantry, but judging by the contents of the saucepans, not only has he bought every ingredient needed, he has bought just enough for two people. Surely that can't be a coincidence? It can't have been a spur-of-the-moment idea, either. Not all of the shops would have been open earlier, and if he didn't sneak out while Sid was asleep, then that must mean Sullivan planned this in advance.

Heart skipping a beat, Sid says, "Didn't expect you to get all this in though." 

"Well, I wouldn't be much of a host if I didn't feed you while you were here," says Sullivan, voice oddly clipped. "Anyway, you'll need something to keep your strength up."

"Why? You got plans for me later?" Sid winds his arms around Sullivan's waist, hugging him close. Sullivan smells good, too. Like soap and aftershave and hair tonic. 

"You are staying until it gets dark again, aren't you?"

"Yeah, 'course."

"So that gives us, what, another twelve hours together?"

"S'pose it does."

"Then we might as well make the most of it."

"You," Sid begins, kissing a trail down the side of Sullivan's neck, "are only after me for one thing."

"It's the only thing you're good for," says Sullivan without missing a beat, and Sid splutters out a laugh.

"That's not very nice!"

"No, but it's true. It's about time someone put you to good use."

"I'm not a toy!"

"Oh, I don't know," Sullivan says, smirking as he turns off the hob. "I've certainly had hours of amusement out of you."

"Is that what you've had?"

"Mm."

"So I'm just your plaything now, am I?"

"You could be."

"Yeah?"

"I could keep you here, use you as I see fit..."

Sid lets out a surprised little moan, tightening his hold around Sullivan's waist. "Is it wrong that I like the sound of that?"

"Possibly. Now, move. I've got to plate this up."

Sid withdraws his arms and goes to sit at the table. He watches Sullivan putter about the kitchen for a while, laying out placemats and fussing with napkins before he divides up the contents of each pan equally between their plates and sets them down. 

"Mmm _,_ " Sid groans when he takes his first bite. 

"Good?"

"Yeah." 

Removing his apron, and folding it over the back of the chair, Sullivan joins him at the table.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Sid hadn't realised how hungry he was until he'd started, but now he's ravenous. He is about to accuse Sullivan of being the reason he's worked up such an appetite, when he looks up to catch Sullivan staring at him.

"You do realise you're supposed to _chew_ your food, don't you?" Sullivan asks, scowling.

"I am chewing it," Sid tells him, mouth full. 

"Hardly. I'm not even sure you're getting the chance to taste it."

"I'm enjoying it!"

"Still, you don't have to bolt it down. I'm not going to snatch the plate back if you don't manage to cram all into your mouth at once."

"Didn't hear you complaining about how much I can fit in my mouth the _other_ night..."

"Sid!"

"What?" says Sid, laughing.

"What sort of talk is that for the breakfast table?"

"I dunno, I usually eat breakfast on my own."

"Yes," says Sullivan, curling his lip. "I'm beginning to understand why."

The rest of their breakfast continues in much the same fashion. Sullivan cuts up the food on his own plate with deliberate precision, taking a bite here and there, and eyeing Sid with distaste as he purposefully shovels forkfuls of egg and mushroom into his mouth to wind Sullivan up further. 

It's Sid who finishes first, pushing his plate away and stifling a belch.

"Really, Carter, you're utterly uncouth."

"Sign of appreciation in some cultures."

"Not in ours."

When Sullivan's finished too, he sets about clearing the table, putting their plates into the bowl to soak, and then it's Sid's turn to watch him. In the privacy of Sullivan's kitchen, with the thick lace curtains obscuring them from view, Sid feels free to admire him. His shirt clings to his shoulders, his back, accentuating the broad lines through the thin cotton as he bends over the Belfast sink to wash up. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, cuffs folded back and buttoned in on themselves to keep them out of the way while he works, and there is something unexpectedly domestic about the whole scene. 

Sid could get used to this, he thinks. But of course, he can't allow himself to, not really. 

"Here," Sid says, getting to his feet to go and stand behind Sullivan at the sink again. "Let me do that."

"Sid Carter, did I hear you right? Are you actually volunteering to do housework?"

"Thought it was only fair, seeing as how you cooked."

"I'll have to let Mrs. McCarthy know that you are capable of doing your own chores, after all."

"I'm not offering to do it for anyone _else._ " Sid leans in closer, rubbing his cheek against Sullivan's, morning stubble grazing the smooth skin of Sullivan's jawline. "Just you."

"Never mind helping me," Sullivan says, "you should go and get ready. You could do with a shave." 

"Haven't brought my razor."

"Use mine."

"Yeah," Sid agrees, planting a final kiss on Sullivan's cheek. "All right..." 

Upstairs, Sid brings his bag into the bathroom, brushes his teeth over the sink. Colgate tastes different from his usual brand. The mint flavour is overpowering, with a slight burn to it, and Sid spits, rinses his mouth out under the tap before it dawns on him that the aftertaste reminds him of kissing Sullivan. 

There is a wall-mounted toothbrush holder above the tiles. It has four holes, two in either side, and Sullivan's single toothbrush looks lonely sitting in it. Maybe the fixtures and fittings were put in before Sullivan was chosen for the transfer. The cottage is designed to be family accommodation, after all. For the average Inspector, his wife, and two-point-four children. The perfect nuclear family that all men are supposed to aspire to.

Sid shakes the water off his brush, slotting the handle into one of the spare holes. Only for a few minutes, just long enough to allow the bristles to dry so he doesn't have to put it back into his holdall wet. 

If anyone were to examine their lives, it might be these details that would give them away. The things left unused. The family photographs so notable in their absence. The fact that there is only one of everything in their respective homes. 

Sid goes through Sullivan's medicine cabinet, taking out his shaving brush, along with a stick of Erasmic, a mug, and Sullivan's straight razor, and lining them up along the back of the sink.

There's nothing incriminating in there, not like there is in Sid's. The tube of K-Y is still in his bag, and he is conscious that he's running out of time to broach the subject with Sullivan.

He grabs one of Sullivan's neatly folded towels from the stack on top of the Lloyd Loom basket and wraps it around his shoulders in a U shape, before filling the mug and dipping the shaving stick in it. He rubs it in broad circles over his cheeks, his throat. When the lower half of his face is completely covered, he goes over it with the wet brush, working the foam into a fine lather.

The edge of the razor is sharper than his own, cool steel stinging his skin. He watches his reflection, coordinating his movements to compensate for the reversal as he shaves. He is just a few strokes from being finished when his focus is diverted by Sullivan appearing in the doorway over his shoulder.

"Almost done?" he asks. 

Sid pauses with the razor resting beneath his septum. "Mm."

"Much better," Sullivan says, looking him over appraisingly.

"Yeah?"

"Here." Sullivan steps into the room, approaching. "You've missed a bit."

He takes the razor from Sid's hand and Sid doesn't move to stop him. Just keeps stock-still as Sullivan presses his index finger under Sid's chin, tilting his head up to grant him better access.

With a slow, steady hand, Sullivan draws the razor over the last patches of lather. In the mirror, Sid watches Sullivan's progress. His hand moves elegantly, first across the underside of Sid's jaw, then repeating the motion over Sid's throat.

And just like that it's over. Sullivan is stepping back, scrutinising. Seemingly satisfied with his handiwork, he brings the edge of the towel up to wipe away the remaining foam, dabbing at Sid's chin.

"All right?" he asks.

Sid releases a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding through his nose. "Yeah..."

"I should go and finish washing up," Sullivan says, eyes locked on Sid's. His chest rises and falls as though has been holding his breath, too. "When you're ready, come down."

One of them needs to say something to break the tension, so Sid asks, "Why? Part of your plans involve having me over the settee?"

"No," says Sullivan, straight-faced even when he adds: "Very uncomfortable and far harder to clean."

Sid raises his eyebrows, suppressing a smile. "And I thought _I_ was s'posed to be uncouth..."

"You are."

"Yeah, well, I'm rubbing off on you, then."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Probably for the best."

"You're a bad influence, Carter."

And now seems like as good a time as any to bring it up. 

"While we're on the subject of me being a bad influence..." Sid says, reaching down to retrieve his bag. "Been meaning to ask."

Sullivan narrows his eyes, gaze shifting from Sid's face to the bag and back again. "Ask what?"

"First you've got to promise you won't take it the wrong way."

"Take _what_ the wrong way?"

"Brought something we could use," Sid says as he delves into the holdall, feeling about for the hole he cut in the lining until his fingers trace the cold metal. "But I don't want you to feel obliged, okay?" 

"Okay..." Sullivan reluctantly agrees, frowning. 

Sid takes out the tube and passes it to Sullivan. 

It's difficult to pin down Sullivan's expressions as quickly as they cross his face. Confusion gives way to understanding, and then to a peculiar mix of interest and nerves. 

"How did you manage to get hold of this?" he asks, turning the tube of K-Y jelly over in his hands.

"Well, I didn't ask at the doctors, if that's what you're wondering."

"Another one of your contacts?"

"You know me. Always know a bloke..."

Sullivan nods.

"Were you thinking of using this today?" he asks, carefully setting the tube down on the edge of the sink.

"Only if you wanted to." Sid shifts his weight from one leg to the other, looking anywhere but Sullivan's eyes. "If not, we can keep it here for another time."

"But you'd like to." Not quite a question, but not a statement either.

Sid shrugs; a hapless, embarrassed gesture. "Just- want to give you what you want."

Sullivan doesn't reply, only licks his lower lip, suddenly fascinated by the worn floorboards in front of him. His hands twitch at his sides, as though he wants to reach out and touch Sid, but he turns away instead. 

"I'll see you downstairs," he says, and with that he's gone.


	18. Chapter 18

When Sid steps into the living room, he finds Sullivan on the settee, one leg crossed over the other, the morning paper folded out across his knee. Sullivan glances up briefly in acknowledgement at the sound of Sid crossing the room, then looks away again, apparently too engrossed in what he's reading to bother making conversation. 

In his shirt and braces, Sullivan appears to have switched roles to white-collar working husband now, and Sid wants to tease him about that as well, crack a joke about Sullivan being the breadwinner, about letting Sid be his kept man, but he doesn't. It would be too close to the bone, for him if not for Sullivan. 

So instead he stops in front of the coffee table, tilting his head and craning his neck to get a better view of the paper.

"Don't you get enough of that at work?" he asks, flicking the front page, where the headline reads: _Standing Hit by Spate of Burglaries_. 

"I read it every morning," says Sullivan, though the cynic in Sid suspects Sullivan is only pretending to read in order to avoid any further discussions about what happened upstairs. "Local knowledge. Family announcements, funeral notices, court hearings."

"Bit of a busman's holiday."

"Ah, yes, some of it. But where would I be if I didn't have the latest on-" Sullivan pauses, opening out the pages and scanning the articles. "-the church choir's fundraiser for the school?"

"Oh, yeah. Dunno how you'd get by without that knowledge..."

Sid sinks down onto the settee beside him, stretching his arms out across the back of it, and Sullivan lets his gaze slide over to him. "Anyway, I like to check the cricket scores."

"Yeah? How're we doing?"

"Badly."

"Hm." 

Sullivan turns back to the notices. "I'd never read anything quite like _The Kembleford Gazette_ before I moved here. Sometimes I think I should order in the nationals so I don't lose touch with reality altogether." 

"Probably," Sid agrees, resting his head against Sullivan's shoulder so he can read with him. "We do seem to be in our own little bubble here."

"Mm, cut off from civilisation."

Sid jabs at one of the columns. "Here, look, Blind 'Arry's going up before the magistrate for being drunk and disorderly again."

"I know, I charged him."

"You didn't?" 

"I did. It was the second time in as many weeks we'd had a complaint about him."

"You rotten sod."

Sullivan looks up again, one eyebrow raised in irritation. "He was making a nuisance of himself, falling asleep on the bench outside the grocers, and shouting obscenities when Mr. Boot tried to move him on."

Sid frowns. "Should've let him be, he's harmless enough."

"Don't start." 

"I'm not starting."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm just saying it's a shame for the poor old bugger, that's all..."

Sullivan shuffles his paper, pointedly avoiding Sid's eyes as he says: "You only sympathise with him because you spend most of your time drunk and disorderly, too."

On the surface of it, it sounds like a joke, but there is an undercurrent of something genuinely critical in Sullivan's voice. 

Sid's frown deepens. "Uncalled for."

"Don't think I haven't seen you on your way back from The Red Lion. I'd have had _you_ up in front of the magistrate not so long ago if it wasn't for the fact that you usually manage to make it home before you lose consciousness."

"That mean I'm exempt now?"

"What?"

"Now I'm shagging the local Inspector. Does that mean I'm exempt if you have to pull me out of the gutter?"

"Only from arrest. I won't let you off so lightly in private."

They seem to be back to their usual patter, so Sid buries his face deeper in Sullivan's neck before he says: "I could go off you, you know. If you hadn't just cooked me breakfast..."

Without looking away from his paper, Sullivan reaches out to squeeze Sid's leg. "Then it's a good job I have."

"Mm."

"At least if I'm cooking for you, you won't be doing all _your_ drinking on an empty stomach."

And there it is again. That critical, judgmental tone. 

Sid wrinkles his nose. "I don't do that anyway."

"Yes, you do. I've seen you."

"What? When?"

"That night. That first night, after we- When I came to the caravan after we'd argued."

The bottom drops out of Sid's stomach. 

Has Sullivan been worrying about that? Does he think Sid is habitually so reckless? Or is it guilt? Does Sullivan feel responsible for upsetting him in the first place? If he does, then his guilt is misplaced. Sullivan might have started the argument, but it was Sid who'd lost his temper and spoken in anger. 

Perhaps it's not judgement in Sullivan's voice at all, but concern. Some need to compensate... 

Sid kisses the patch of exposed skin above Sullivan's collar, tells him: "That was a one-off..." 

"It's not good for you, you know."

"I know. I just told you, I don't make a habit of it."

"You should take better care of yourself."

And that's when it clicks: Sullivan is _nagging_ him. Chiding him for his irresponsible behaviour the way a spouse or loved one might. 

A flush creeps up Sid's neck. 

"All right, all right," he says, "spare me the lecture. You sound like Mrs. M." 

Because it should be insulting, shouldn't it? Being condescended to. It should be demeaning. Only somehow all Sid feels beyond the initial embarrassment at his own behaviour is a sudden wave of affection.

Warmth spreads through him and he nuzzles Sullivan's neck, sucking an open-mouthed kiss to his throat just below his pulse-point. 

Sullivan's grip tightens on his leg. 

Maybe there is hope after all. Maybe Sid isn't alone in this. If Sullivan cares about him enough to worry, if Sullivan spends his time fretting over him the same way Mrs. M does, then it must mean he matters to Sullivan in some small way. 

Why else would he tell him off? Why else would he make a fuss, or go to the trouble of cooking him breakfast?

Sid wriggles further down the settee, rearranging himself so that his legs are hooked up over the arm, and his head is resting in Sullivan's lap, and Sullivan uncrosses his legs and lifts the paper to accommodate him, despite a sigh and an exasperated, "What're you doing?"

"Lying down."

"Yes, I can see that. Does it have to be across me?"

"Yeah."

"You're a nuisance."

"And _you're_ not very comfortable," Sid complains. 

"Neither are you."

"There's no give in your legs." Sid rolls his head around, adjusting the position of his shoulders and nearly hitting Sullivan in the groin in the process.

"Careful!" Sullivan grabs one of the cushions and wedges it under him, either to make Sid more comfortable or to insulate himself against serious injury - Sid isn't entirely sure - but he settles back against it anyway. "It comes to something when a man can't even read the paper in peace in his own home..."

"Want me to fetch your pipe and slippers and leave you to it next time, darlin'?" Sid asks, unable to resist. 

"Shut up," says Sullivan, but there is no heat behind his words, and he lets go of the paper with one hand so he can cup Sid's face, stroking his freshly-shaved jaw. 

Sid does shut up for a few minutes then. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the sensations as Sullivan absentmindedly alternates between caressing his cheek, tickling his neck, and playing with his hair. For the first time in a very long time, all Sid's needs are sated and he feels completely relaxed.

"Go on then," he says at length. "Read to me."

At some point, Sullivan must have flicked back to the sports pages, because he starts reeling off the cricket scores in a low, gentle voice. 

_"Saturday the twenty-eighth of June: Kembleford one-hundred and two, all out. Hambleston two-hundred and eight. Won by a hundred and six runs..."_

All the while Sullivan's fingertips skim Sid's skin, smooth back his hair. 

"S'nice," Sid slurs, feeling drowsy in spite of the fact that he's not long had a full night's sleep. "Feels nice..."

"Good."

Sid leans into Sullivan's touch. His head feels heavy. He can feel the warm press of Sullivan's thigh against his shoulders, the heat of his palm on his neck. Everything is dark and smells like Sullivan, and Sid doesn't remember ever being so completely at ease.

"Keep all this up and you're never gonna get rid of me," he says.

And the last thing he thinks he hears as he drifts off is Sullivan murmuring something about wanting him to stay. 


	19. Chapter 19

The next time Sid wakes, Sullivan is still above him. Sitting back against the settee, the warm weight of his palm resting on Sid's chest. 

When Sid shifts against his leg, Sullivan looks down.

"Hello again," he says.

Sid draws a deep breath, releasing it with a groan. "Feel like death warmed up."

"You don't look much better."

"Rude." Sid rolls his head from side to side to try to work out the crick in his neck. His back hurts, too, and pins and needles have set in all the way down one arm. "How long was I out?" 

"A couple of hours."

"Should've woken me."

"Why?"

"'Cause..." Sid flexes his hand to restore some of the feeling. "I can sleep anytime. Wasted two hours we could've used now."

"Well, I'd like to say you looked too peaceful to wake, but it's not true. You were tossing and turning, snoring like a congested pig, and worst of all, Carter, you _drool._ "

"Slander," says Sid, wiping his chin off on his wrist.

"I was always led to believe it would be romantic, watching your lover sleep. But with you, it was utterly disgusting."

And Sid knows it's raillery, just the set-up for another insult, but something tightens in his chest at the word _lover._

"I've never had any complaints before..." he says. 

"Then either everyone else was too polite to comment, or you left in such a hurry that they never got the chance to."

"Or maybe," Sid begins, "they found it endearing."

"Doubtful. You're really very unattractive when you sleep, Carter."

"You're _horrible_ to me."

"I'm not," Sullivan says, a smile playing about his lips. 

"You are!"

"I'm only being honest."

"What, by calling me ugly and disgusting?"

That almost breaks him, but Sullivan just about manages to keep a straight face. "Mm. Everything about you is thoroughly off-putting."

"Everything?" Sid raises his eyebrows. 

"Everything."

"Was that how you were feeling last night, then, was it? _Put off?"_

"Yes," Sullivan answers without hesitation, though perhaps it might be more convincing if his hand hadn't slipped beneath the neckline of Sid's vest, stroking along his sternum. 

"What, even when you had me pinned to the bed?"

"Yes."

"Even when you were finishing on top of me?"

"Even then."

"Hm." Sid purses his lips. "Well, if I'm so disgusting, how come you keep coming back for more?"

"Sheer desperation," Sullivan says, nodding solemnly, and it's Sid who cracks first, turning his head to the side to stifle a laugh in the cushion. 

"You _are_ horrible to me."

"You like it," Sullivan counters.

And perhaps it's true, perhaps Sid does. There is a certain thrill to be found in Sullivan's particular brand of cruelty. Harsh words juxtaposed with actions that belie them. Some of Sullivan's insults border on the sadistic, but there is a raw need in the way Sullivan looks at him, touches him afterwards, and Sid enjoys it - the initial sting followed by the balm - just as long as he never allows any nagging doubts to creep in. 

"I don't," Sid lies anyway. 

"Don't you?"

"No."

"Would you prefer me to be nice to you?"

Sid stares up at him, nodding as he gives a slow lick of his lower lip that turns into a bite. Sullivan withdraws his hand, only to reach across and press it to the front of Sid's trousers.

A quiet breath and Sid closes his eyes, feeling himself twitch. 

"Well, that's definitely nice," he agrees. 

"I could be nicer still."

His fingers close around Sid through the thick linen, gripping him, taking a few minutes to work him to full hardness. By the time he's finished, Sid doesn't bother trying to hide his reaction. He moans, using the arm of the settee for purchase as he arches his back into Sullivan's touch. 

"You sure you don't fancy me?" he asks, breathless, goading. 

"Not one iota," says Sullivan, and with that, he pushes the heel of his hand down harder. As hard as he had on himself last night, maybe. Pleasure mingling with pain, until Sid finds himself squirming. 

"Keep that up and I'm not gonna have any clean trousers to get home in."

"Then you'll have to stay here."

"Will I?"

"Yes. And just think of all the things I could do with you if I had you for longer..."

" _Oh._ " 

Sid wants it. Wants to stay with Sullivan for longer, for more than just a day or two. Wants to let Sullivan do anything he likes with him. 

"Sid?"

Sid makes an unintelligible sound, thrusting helplessly against Sullivan's palm. 

"Sid, have you got anything with you?"

"Anything...?" Sid repeats distractedly, giving another roll of his hips. 

"Anything we can use?"

"Eh?"

Slowing his hand, Sullivan asks, "Have you got any French Letters?"

"You mean you want...?" 

"Yes."

A pause as Sullivan's earlier words register with him and Sid pulls a face. "French _Letters?_ "

"You know, a sheath-"

"No, no, I know what you _mean_. I just- really? _French Letters?_ "

"Are you honestly going to do this now?" 

"Yep," Sid says, lightheaded and panting up at the ceiling, as he fights back a grin. "Yes, I am."

Sullivan sighs, looking put-upon. "Have you got any?"

"What, rubber johnnies?" Sid asks, just to irritate him.

"Yes."

"Well, yeah, 'course I have."

"Then go and get one before I change my mind."

Sid does grin then, scrambling upright and planting a quick peck on Sullivan's lips before he's up and off the settee.

"Go up to bed, I'll be up in a minute."

"All right."

Sid watches Sullivan gets to his feet, stretching, massaging his calf where his own limbs must have gone numb over the course of the last two hours. Overcome with another wave of affection, Sid turns away, disappearing into the kitchen where Sullivan won't be able to see any of the more embarrassing emotions that might cross his face, and where Sid's jacket still hangs on the coat hook by the door. He retrieves his wallet from the inside pocket, taking out the packets from the back compartment, then he makes his way back through the empty living room and up the stairs.

On the landing, he stops into the bathroom. Even in the dim light, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. Clothes askew and hair sticking up all over the place where Sullivan has been running his fingers through it. Ridiculous. Certainly not suave and handsome; maybe Sullivan has got a point. Sid scoffs quietly to himself, taking a few seconds to neaten himself up before he grabs the lubricant off the sink, whips the towel off the rail, and heads for the bedroom. 

When he gets there, he finds Sullivan stripped to the waist, standing beside the bed. The curtains are still drawn and the room is dark, with just the natural light seeping in from outside. Dark enough to obscure the details. Maybe dark enough to ensure Sullivan isn't too self-conscious. 

Sid lays the towel out on the bed and sets the tube down on top of it, then straightens back up, holding the two small paper packets aloft for Sullivan to see.

"Here we are, something for the weekend. Or the week. Always keep a couple on me in case of emergencies." At the look on Sullivan's face, he hastily adds: "Force of habit. I haven't had to use any for ages."

But Sullivan swallows and looks away, muttering: "It wouldn't be my business if you had."

"Well, I haven't."

"If you say so."

"I do," says Sid. 

Sullivan nods, though he doesn't look very reassured. 

"C'mere, you daft sod," Sid tuts, pulling Sullivan in by the waist and kissing him again. Properly this time, open-mouthed and hungry. He only breaks it to whisper, "You think I'm bothered about seeing other people now?" in his ear.

When he pulls back, Sullivan is staring at him, eyes dark and intense. 

"Sid," he says, tugging at Sid's open shirt. "Sid, take this off."

Sid does. He makes quick work of pulling the sleeves down over each arm, and letting it drop to the floor beside them.

"And this," Sullivan tells him, lifting the hem of Sid's vest next.

"Yeah?" 

Sullivan nods, hiking it further up Sid's chest. "All of it."

"Someone's eager."

Sid yanks his vest over his head and throws that to the floor, too, before starting on his trousers, watching as Sullivan follows suit. As soon as they're both undressed, Sullivan is back on him, pressing frantic kisses to his jaw, his lips. His hands move over Sid's flanks with a sudden, shaky urgency. 

"Sid, I need-" he murmurs against Sid's lips.

"What do you need?"

Sullivan's eyes flit up then down over Sid's body, and the implication is clear, even if the word _you_ goes unspoken.

"Here, bed, bed," Sid manages between kisses.

He pushes Sullivan back onto the mattress, lowering himself down on top of him, easing one thigh between both of Sullivan's, and moving against him for long minutes, until Sullivan is hard under him, hips twitching up like he's unable to control them.

It will be better like this, getting Sullivan worked up. It will make things a lot easier if Sullivan is too distracted for nerves. 

All the same, Sid isn't sure how to play it. What is the best way to put someone at their ease when they've never done this before? 

Sid has deflowered a couple of virgins in his time. Most memorably Jenny Blackwell, one of the local farmer's daughters, who had been far more relaxed about the whole affair than he'd expected, even if her father hadn't been when he'd come home early and caught them. 

Sullivan is a different kettle of fish altogether. Tense, ill at ease with himself and his desires, and Sid knows he has to tread carefully. 

"Roll over," he says, moving off him. Not really an order, but Sullivan complies nonetheless. "No, here. On your side."

With a steadying hand on Sullivan's hip, Sid guides him into position, shuffling in close behind him and pressing his stomach to Sullivan's back. Once he has Sullivan where he wants him, he reaches for the lubricant. He uncaps the tube, slicking up three fingers, holding them in his other hand for a few seconds to warm them. 

Sid presses a couple of kisses to Sullivan's shoulder before he murmurs, "Ready?"

"Mm."

"Just say the word if you want me to stop, okay?" 

"Okay."

And with that, Sid slips his hand down between their bodies and presses one finger inside him.

Sullivan gasps. 

"You all right?"

"Yes," Sullivan says, voice scarcely above a whisper. 

"You sure?"

Sullivan nods. "Cold, that's all."

"Won't be for long..."

Slowly, steadily, Sid works him open, adding a second finger, then a third. 

"Sid-"

"What's wrong? That hurting?"

"No, I just-"

"What?"

"When you've- Once you've done that, can you go and wash your hands before we...?" Sullivan trails off, and Sid buries a laugh in the nape of his neck. 

Not ridicule, never ridicule. Not when they're like this.

Sid wouldn't judge someone for their preferences. He has been around enough to learn a thing or two about human nature, and he knows that people like all sorts of different things in bed. Some like it gentle, some like it rough. Some messy, some with as little mess involved as possible. Variety is the spice of life, and all that. Why shouldn't Sullivan want sex to be as clean and orderly as he likes everything else to be? 

It's just so typical of Sullivan that Sid can't help but find it funny. 

Still, the last thing he wants is to make Sullivan feel even more insecure, so he tries to keep the amusement out of his voice as he says, "Yeah, no, 'course I can."

He takes a little longer, making sure Sullivan is properly prepared, then true to his word, he goes off to wash his hands. When he climbs back onto the bed, Sullivan reaches for him, hand groping about blindly behind him until he finds Sid's arse and pulls him closer.

"Hang on," Sid tells him, holding back while he rolls one of the condoms on and slicks himself up. He shifts Sullivan half onto his front, angling him forward, so he can get this right.

"You know what you're doing," Sullivan says. A statement, on the face of it, though somehow it comes out sounding more like an accusation. 

"That's what you want the first time, isn't it? Someone who knows what he's doing."

"A man of the world..."

Sid kisses his neck. "If that's your polite way of saying I've put it about a bit, then yeah."

But Sullivan doesn't reply. 

After a charged silence, Sid asks, "Does it bother you? That I've put it about?"

"Sometimes."

"Because you haven't...?"

"No. Because all those other people got to have you first."

"Oh," Sid moans, feeling himself start to throb. He knows it's wrong, but there is something fiercely arousing in knowing that Sullivan wants him badly enough to get jealous. More of the balm that soothes. "You can have me now."

He aligns their bodies, showering Sullivan's neck with more kisses as he presses against him.

Sullivan takes a shuddering breath. 

"Still all right?" Sid whispers. 

"Mm."

"Haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Sullivan shakes his head.

Slowly, as slowly as he can bear to, Sid pushes in. Sullivan breathes through his nose, eyes closed, brow knitted. When he's in all the way to the hilt, Sid sucks in a breath of his own, counts backwards from ten, fingers digging into the sharp angle of Sullivan's hip as he wills himself to keep still. 

"How's that feel?" he asks. 

"Strange."

"Strange?"

"Big."

Sid huffs out a little laugh. "All right, I'm definitely not seeing anyone else if you tell me that every time."

Then Sullivan is laughing too, a harsh, breathy sound that ends in a groan. "Admittedly, I've got nothing to compare it to." 

"Exactly. Ideal."

And Sullivan laughs again. Sid can feel the exact moment he relaxes, head lolling forward, muscles going slack under Sid's hands. Sid pulls back, just an inch or two, before pushing in again, and Sullivan groans louder this time. 

"Still not hurting?"

"No, still just strange."

Fumbling about for the lubricant in the folds of the eiderdown, Sid says, "Here. Give us your hand." 

Sullivan obeys, and Sid squeezes some of the K-Y jelly into his palm, making sure he gets it good and slick before he takes Sullivan's hand in his, guiding it down beneath Sullivan's body where he is angled towards the sheets, and wrapping it around his flagging erection.

"Touch yourself while I..." Sid trails off, finding it easier to illustrate his point with another slow thrust. Then another, then another. 

They begin to find a rhythm. A little disjointed at first, with Sullivan seemingly unsure whether to drive his hips forward into his own fist or push back against Sid, but soon they're moving in sync. 

"Better?" Sid asks. 

"Much better." 

They move together in the low light of the bedroom, gasping and groaning and panting until the sound of ringing stops them dead in their tracks. It's coming from downstairs; the telephone in the hall. 

"Shit," Sullivan says, breathless, twisting his head around as though he might somehow be able to see the hall table from there.

"Ignore it." 

"I should answer it."

"Not now you shouldn't." Sid keeps moving, though his thrusts are gentler, shallower. 

A moan and Sullivan says, "It could be important."

He wriggles forward slightly, as though he's planning on pulling away, and Sid grips him tighter. "Don't you _dare._ "

"What if it's work?"

"I don't care if it's the queen of bleedin' England ringing to give you a knighthood, if you get up now, I'll never forgive you."

"Okay," Sullivan concedes, sounding like he no longer has the strength of will to resist. 

He slumps forward into the mattress, and Sid shifts so that he is further on top of him. The angle is better like this. Easier. His hips snap forward again and again, building up a harder, faster rhythm. 

Eventually the phone stops ringing, leaving just the sounds of skin against skin and their harsh staccato breaths. 

"Oh, God," Sullivan moans, pushing back against him. "Oh God, Sid, that's-"

Sid knows he must have found the right spot, so he keeps going, keeps fucking him at the same angle, with the same even strokes so that he hits it over and over again. 

"Sid, that's so good. You're so-" 

But Sid knows he isn't good. He's just a fast learner, quick at adapting. It is less a question of technique, more a question of reading your lover's responses, getting to know their body, and tailoring your method to fit their needs. A little understanding of differing preferences goes a long way...

Sid reaches around, swatting Sullivan's hand away and taking over, stroking him roughly in time to his own thrusts, giving the occasional twist of his wrist and flick of his thumb to bring Sullivan closer to the edge with him. 

He knows he won't last much longer. Neither of them will, but he can feel his own control starting to fray with every thrust now. 

"Oh fuck, Sullivan," he pants, breath hot against Sullivan's jaw. "Please."

Sullivan cranes his neck back until their mouths meet, teeth clashing, and that's what does it. One final thrust and he goes still, coming inside Sullivan with a strangled moan.

Sullivan keeps going, arm moving frantically until he comes, letting out a hiss and a bitten-off groan, tensing around Sid. The sensation is too much. Sid winces through it, spent and oversensitive, wrapping an arm around Sullivan's chest to pull him closer anyway. 

And this time when he draws back to press his sweat-slick forehead to Sullivan's shoulder, he almost says something stupid. 


	20. Chapter 20

Sullivan has gone quiet again. 

He's been quiet since the bedroom. In those seconds after, when Sid might have said anything, murmured the first thought that crossed his mind into the skin of Sullivan's back, Sullivan had fallen silent, choosing to say nothing at all. 

Perhaps Sullivan has got the right idea, Sid thinks as he dresses in front of the sink. Perhaps he ought to take a leaf out of Sullivan's book. Better to keep quiet, to keep those embarrassing, sentimental thoughts to himself rather than let them all spill out in the heat of the moment; tender and soft and dangerous in their sincerity. 

The bathroom is starting to fill with steam, fogging up the mirror, but Sid can still hear Sullivan shift the bath. He knows Sullivan well enough by now to understand that he won't want Sid to look. Not yet, not so soon after he has laid everything bare. Sid waits a minute or two longer to allow Sullivan the time to settle before he turns around. 

When he does, he finds Sullivan submerged in the water, staring up at him from under his eyebrows, subdued and withdrawn in a way he hasn't been since the first time.

Forgoing his shirt, Sid pulls his braces up over his vest, and steps towards him. He kneels down beside the bath, one thigh pressed to the wood panelling, body twisted so he can fold his arms over the edge of the tub. Heat rises off the water, and maybe Sid is still a little washed out, because it makes his head swim. 

"Hello," he says, resting his chin in the crook of one arm. 

Sullivan cracks an eye open. "Hello."

"Isn't this a bit hot?"

"No, it's nice."

"All right, suit yourself." Sid lets his other arm dangle over the side of the bath, fingers skimming the surface of the water, swilling it around to test it. It is too hot, too hot by a mile for a summer's afternoon, turning Sullivan's skin red, but Sullivan seems comfortable enough. "If you wanna boil yourself alive, that's your business..."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You'll get housemaid's knee, kneeling on these floorboards." 

"Nah, I'm used to it," says Sid. "You'd be surprised how much time I've spent on my knees over the years..."

He is aiming for a crass joke to get Sullivan to relax, but apparently it's the wrong thing to say, because Sullivan looks away, eyes downcast. Initially, Sid mistakes it for embarrassment until he follows Sullivan's line of vision to the edge of the bath where Sid's Saint Christopher has fallen out of his vest, hanging down, silver stark against the white enamel. 

Not embarrassment, then; something else. Shame. Fear. Of judgement, divine or otherwise. All the things they'd talked about last night...

Sid's first impulse is to tuck the necklace away, but that would only draw attention to the fact that he's noticed. So instead he reaches for the flannel and the bar of Imperial Leather.

"What're you doing?" Sullivan asks, looking up as Sid dips them both into the bathwater, scrubbing the flannel over the soap.

"Might as well make myself useful while I'm down here getting housemaid's knee."

Sullivan gives him a funny look, but he doesn't object, so Sid sets the soap back in its dish and leans in to press the hot flannel to Sullivan's back, rubbing it in circles, watching the lather form.

With a soft sigh, Sullivan goes pliant under Sid's touch. 

"That's it, relax," Sid whispers, cradling Sullivan's neck, pressing on his chest with his free hand, and lowering him backwards until he's reclining against the back of the bath. Sullivan rests his head on the cream tiles, throat exposed, and Sid drags the flannel over each side of it, down to his shoulders, massaging them.

"You okay?" 

Sullivan nods, eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. 

"You've been a bit quiet."

"Have I?"

"Mm."

"I was just thinking..."

"'Bout what?" Sid asks, though he thinks he has a fairly good idea. He watches Sullivan closely, watches the crease form in his brow, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. 

"What you said last night."

"Which part?"

"Morality. Picking and choosing the bits that suit us..."

"Ah," says Sid. He works the flannel over Sullivan's collarbone, letting the lather gather in his chest hair. 

"Do you think it's wrong?"

"What we just did, you mean?" 

Sullivan nods. 

"No," says Sid. "I don't think it's wrong."

"But you think it makes me a hypocrite?"

And now it's Sid's turn to swallow. At his worst, at his least charitable, that's exactly what he thinks. That Sullivan has double standards, that it's one set of rules for him and another for everybody else. But Sid can't bring himself to say it. 

Sullivan is vulnerable. Afraid, even if he'd never admit it, and Sid might not be able to help what he thinks, but he can help what he says. A lie would be kinder. 

"No," Sid mutters. 

Eyes still closed, Sullivan tells him, "I've arrested men for less."

"I know you have."

"Far less."

"I know."

Sid dips the flannel into the bathwater again, wringing it out before he moves to wipe over Sullivan's ribs. He isn't sure why Sullivan is looking to him of all people for absolution. Not when he's one of the men Sullivan is talking about; the men Sullivan has thrown the book at for lesser crimes in the past.

Is it a display of trust? A sign that Sullivan has revised his opinion? Or is Sullivan just so desperate for reassurance that he'd seek it even in someone like him? 

"There was one night," Sullivan continues quietly, "back in London... My superiors ordered a raid on one of those sorts of drinking establishments."

"What, a pub where...?"

"Mm. I wasn't involved. That was down to Vice. But I got to hear about it and I did nothing to stop it..."

"What could you have done?"

The corner of Sullivan's mouth twitches. "I don't know. If I'd spoken up, they'd only have suspected me, and they'd have still gone ahead with it."

"Yeah," Sid agrees softly, moving the flannel down over Sullivan's abdomen.

It doesn't come as a surprise to him, but it makes his stomach turn nonetheless. Revulsion mingling with pity, for Sullivan and for all the miserable decisions he's had to make over the years, in his career and in his private life. 

"I couldn't have stopped it, but I was still complicit in it."

"You were protecting yourself."

"And my own interests..."

"Maybe."

"Do you think that's worse than a sin?" Sullivan asks, voice plaintive. "Betraying your own kind?"

Sid carefully wipes Sullivan's thighs.

It's not as though Sid is in a position to judge. Maybe he's never played a part in sending anyone to prison for their preferences, but he hasn't always stood up when it counted, either. There have been times when he has laughed along with the bullies, joined in with them, goading and tormenting some other poor boy in order to keep the focus off him. 

He could claim his actions were driven by fear, but sometimes there was malice behind them, too. Anger and self-hatred turned outwards, redirected - _misdirected_ \- towards an easier target. 

"I think blokes like us do what we have to do to get by," Sid says honestly.

"Does that make it excusable?"

Sid shakes his head, despite the fact that Sullivan still hasn't opened his eyes. "I don't know."

"Sometimes everything I do feels like a betrayal..."

"Split loyalties?" 

"Mm." 

"Why did you join?" Sid asks, dipping the flannel between Sullivan's thighs, cleaning him there, too. "If you knew you were... y'know, the way you are? Surely a job with the police'd be the last thing you'd want?"

"I wanted to do the right thing, I suppose. Something that would make a difference, make my father proud. I think when I was younger I was still kidding myself that I'd be able to control those tendencies."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not sure I could control myself if I tried," Sullivan confesses.

Dropping the flannel into the water to soak, Sid soaps up his hands one last time, rubbing them together before working them down the length of Sullivan's arm. Over strong biceps and sinewy muscle, all the way to the tips of his fingers. When Sid has finished one arm, he moves onto the other. There is something comforting in these rituals. More than just the act of looking after Sullivan, or restoring him to his default state, it's intimate in a way that sex never has been for Sid. 

"Here y'are," he says quietly, releasing Sullivan's hand and picking up the measuring jug from the corner of the bath. "Sit up a bit. Head forward."

Sullivan complies, and Sid drags the jug through the water until it fills, pouring it carefully over the nape of Sullivan's neck, watching it cascade down his back, off his shoulder blades, rinsing off the suds. 

"Okay, now head back." Sid refills the jug, tilts Sullivan's jaw up, pouring it down his chest. 

"It's partly your fault, you know," says Sullivan, once the worst of it has run off him.

"What is?"

"My lack of self-control." Sullivan finally looks up at him again, meeting his gaze. "I might've been all right if I'd never met you."

There is amusement on his features, in his voice, but something in his eyes belies it. Does Sullivan resent him for fostering this desire in him? For tempting him into breaking his own moral code?

Sid can't believe that other men haven't proved more tempting, but perhaps they haven't made themselves as readily available as he has. There's always the lingering doubt that there might be some truth to Sullivan's insults, and Sullivan is just taking what he can get. 

"Would you?" Sid asks. "Have been all right, I mean?"

"Maybe." A rueful smile. "I'd have managed."

"That's not the same as being all right."

"No," Sullivan agrees. "Anyway, it's too late to worry about what might've been now."

"Is it?"

"As if you don't know."

But Sid genuinely doesn't know.

As with everything else in his life, he'd stumbled into this blindly. It was a test, a game, a bit of fun that got out of hand somewhere along the way, and now Sid is in it so deep he's drowning, yet he still has no idea what any of it means to Sullivan. 

He is about to ask - something, anything - where Sullivan sees this going, or else how he plans to end it, when the telephone starts ringing downstairs again. 

"Oh, for pity's _sake,_ " Sullivan hisses, scrambling to get up, sending water sloshing over the sides of the bath. Sid stands stiffly too, grabbing a towel from the laundry basket to hold out to Sullivan. He offers his shoulder for Sullivan to lean on as he climbs out of the bath, towel held loosely about his waist.

Once Sullivan has two feet firmly on the bathmat, he fumbles with the corners of the towel, trying to tie it, but by the time he's managed to secure it in place, the phone has rung off. 

He clenches his jaw. "I'm beginning to think the universe is conspiring against us."

"Feels like it," Sid gripes, the tension in his posture the only thing that betrays his own frustration at being interrupted.

"It really must be important if they've rung twice."

"Could be two separate callers."

"Could be, but what if it isn't? What if it's work? It must be urgent."

"If it's urgent then they'll ring back, won't they? And next time you can answer it," says Sid. His hand is still on Sullivan's back, holding, steadying. "C'mon, let's get you dried off, eh? You look like a drowned rat."

That earns him a scowl and a sarcastic, "Thank you."

"A very handsome one."

"A very handsome drowned rat?"

"Yep."

Giving a despairing shake of his head, Sullivan turns towards the sink so he can reach the medicine cabinet. 

"Go on then," he tells Sid, as he applies some deodorant. "Do my back."

However tempting it might be to pull the knot of Sullivan's towel undone, Sid decides against it. He takes another one off the Lloyd Loom and wraps it around Sullivan's shoulders, lifting the corners to dry his neck. The mood isn't playful enough to tease him like that. They need to work their way up to it again. So Sid gives him a rough rubdown with the towel, turning his skin back to red where it has paled with the change in temperature, and following it up with a few kisses to the top of Sullivan's spine.

When Sullivan splashes a dash of cologne onto each wrist, dabbing them against his throat, Sid seizes his opportunity, making a show of wrinkling up his nose and sniffing the air. 

"Cor, that stuff pen and inks," he says. "You're worse than Bunty with all these lotions and potions."

"It's only a bottle of Bronnley."

"Get out of it, you've got half the bleedin' toiletries counter at Boots in there." 

"Well, it's better than smelling like engine oil and dirt all the time."

Sid lets the towel fall to the floor, hooks an arm around Sullivan's waist, pulling Sullivan against him. "Is that what you think I smell like?"

"That _is_ what you smell like."

"Well, I tell you what..."

"What?"

"I think you like it."

"You think I like you being utterly filthy all the time?"

"Mm." Sid kisses a trail along Sullivan's neck, breathing in the earthy scent. Much as he's loath to admit it, he likes the way Sullivan always smells so clean. Something about the contrast. "I think you need a good seeing-to from a proper bloke."

"I see. And real men don't wash, I take it?"

"No. Well, not very often, anyway."

"In that case, you must be the epitome of masculinity."

"Thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment." 

"No," says Sid, laughing, "I know it wasn't."

"If it wouldn't emasculate you too much, perhaps I could give _you_ a bath next time," Sullivan suggests, turning within the circle of Sid's arms and smirking at him. 

"Yeah, all right. Providing you get in with me."

"I'm not sure we'd both fit."

"We would."

"I don't know. You're all limbs, Carter. Too tall."

"Oi!" 

"It's true. Gangly, ungainly creature." 

"If you've finished insulting me, we should go and get you dressed before you catch your death of cold."

Sullivan smiles, kissing Sid's jaw. "Next time, then."

And with that, Sid turns Sullivan around and pushes him in the direction of the bedroom. 


	21. Chapter 21

In the kitchen, when they have both dressed, Sullivan props open the window above the sink on its catchment stay and asks, "Do you want a drink?"

"Mm, I'm parched."

It is cooler downstairs, out of the oppressive humidity of the bathroom, and Sid perches on the edge of the dining table, closing his eyes for a few seconds and basking in the fresh air flowing through.

"Cup of tea or are you too hot?"

"No, tea's fine. I'll be all right in a minute."

"You are too hot," Sullivan says, eyeing Sid as he fills the kettle. He sets it on the cooker ring, lighting the gas with a match.

"Yeah, well, if you didn't have your water like you were in a bleedin' Turkish bath..."

Without so much as a twitch of his lips, Sullivan says, "You could always take your shirt off again." 

Sid laughs. "Like me knocking about in just my vest, do you?"

"I was thinking about your comfort." 

"Yeah, 'course you were..."

Sullivan smiles to himself as he opens one of the jars that he's got lined up along the work surface, scooping out a heaped spoonful of tealeaves and dropping them into the little sage green pot before replacing the lid. He looks at home in his kitchen, going about his tasks with a practiced efficiency. He looks content. 

Sid unfastens his shirt all the way, but doesn't remove it, finding it does provide some relief. 

"Could you get a fresh spoon out?" Sullivan asks, as he sets the teapot on the metal stand.

Sid pushes himself upright. "Which drawer?"

"Top left."

A wooden cutlery tray fills the drawer like a lining, each type of utensil allocated a separate compartment, with the teaspoons at the end. 

_A place for everything, and everything in its place_. Mrs. M has quoted that at Sid on more than one occasion when she's been chastising him for making a mess. Sullivan doesn't make messes. He is neat and orderly to a fault. 

Sid takes one of the spoons out, dropping it onto the counter. He watches Sullivan fetch the milk jug from the fridge. Pale green like the rest of his crockery, because of course Sullivan goes to the effort of decanting his milk into a matching jug, of _course_ he does.

They could never make a go of it, the two of them. Sid would drive Sullivan up the wall with his laziness and disorder. 

Sullivan pithers about taking the cups and saucers down from the Welsh dresser, laying them out on the work surface with a precision that borders on scrupulousness. Framed by the afternoon sun, he looks younger somehow. All his hard edges smoothed out, softened by the light. 

What was Sullivan like before the years of stress and loneliness set in? Was he ever easy-going? Relaxed? Would he have been more readily persuaded to leave his job back when he was in his twenties?

Not that Sid is considering trying to persuade him to leave, but the conversation they had in the bathroom is still weighing heavily on his mind. 

On the stovetop, the kettle starts to whistle, and Sullivan picks it up with the pot holder, pouring the boiling water into the teapot, and leaving it to steep. 

This is Sullivan's rightful place, the world where he belongs. A world of white-collar work and steady incomes and neat little kitchens in middle-class houses, where Sullivan can impose order onto chaos. 

Even if Sullivan resigned tomorrow, agreed to run off with him, Sid could never offer him anything like this. 

What could he provide? Sporadic earnings? Odd jobs, paid cash-in-hand or some off the books chauffeuring? No permanent base, only a place to doss down, then upping sticks whenever they started to come under scrutiny? That might do for Sid - he has always thrived on chaos - but it wouldn't be much of a life for Sullivan...

Beside him, Sullivan rests a strainer over the top of one of the cups, carefully pouring the tea through it. 

Sid busies himself with lifting the lids on a few of the other jars lined up along Sullivan's counter. Cocoa powder, pearl barley, some sort of dried beans. He sets the final lid down with a clunk, and says, "All right, I give up. Where d'you keep your sugar?"

"I don't keep sugar."

"What d'you mean, you don't keep sugar?" Sid screws up his face. "Who doesn't keep _sugar?"_

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"I don't like it."

"Here, look, if you're having trouble with your rations I can get-" 

"I'm _not,_ " Sullivan interrupts before Sid gets the chance to say anything incriminating. "I just don't take sugar in my tea, so I don't bother buying it."

"Yeah, but what about for when you've got company?"

A blank stare, followed by a confused frown from Sullivan. "I've never really invited anyone 'round before..."

"Huh."

Up until now, Sid hasn't had much cause to consider Sullivan's social life. Sullivan is still relatively new here. He works antisocial hours and spends most of his time fending off advances from the local women. Of course Sullivan doesn't invite many people back to his house. Who would there be to invite?

A dull ache of sympathy blooms in Sid's chest.

"Anyway, I don't know what you're complaining about," Sullivan goes on, as he adds milk to his own tea, then to Sid's. "You haven't even got _milk_ in your caravan."

"No, but I've got _sugar._ "

Sid picks up the spoon, stirring their tea, while Sullivan retrieves a tin he's got stowed away on one of the shelves of the dresser. He opens it up, taking out a few Rich Tea biscuits and arranging them on a plate. 

"You should get a generator set up," he tells Sid, "so you've got electricity out there. Get yourself a fridge."

"What would I need a fridge for?"

"Save your food spoiling."

"Never had a problem with food spoiling..." says Sid, reaching for one of the Rich Teas. 

"No, well, it probably wouldn't get the chance to with you." Sullivan slaps his hand away. "Glutton."

"You put them out! I thought I could have one!"

"You can. Once we go and sit down. I want to listen to the World Service."

Sid grunts in acquiescence and trails after Sullivan as he carries the tea and biscuits through into the living room.

They sit just a little too close together on the settee, Sullivan pointedly brushing crumbs off the cushion and giving Sid a forced look of disapproval every time he slurps his tea. 

It seems less like annoyance and more like affection lately, the way they trade barbs, but Sid can't let that impair his judgement. It could never work out in the long-run.

One day Sullivan will meet a man with the means to get him out of his job, to take him away somewhere and still keep him in the style to which he's become accustomed. Sullivan is a handsome bloke, he would have plenty of offers from men, too, if he ever allowed himself to go somewhere he might meet the right sort. 

Sid does his best to ignore the twisting sensation in his stomach as he forces down another Rich Tea. Bitterness or envy won't do him any good. He should be practical about it, make the most of their time together while he has the chance.

"What're we doing after this?" he asks around a mouthful of soggy biscuit, and Sullivan frowns at him.

"I thought we might listen to music for a while." He gestures vaguely at the wireless.

"Or," says Sid, "we could go back to bed for a bit."

"We can't spend all day in bed." 

"Uh, I think you'll find we _can..._ "

"I'm beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with you," says Sullivan, narrowing his eyes. "Medically."

Sid bows his head, shakes it, giggling. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"You're relentless."

"I can't help it if I fancy you, can I?"

"You fancy anything with a pulse. That's my point." 

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do." Sullivan turns slightly, one hand coming up to grip the back of Sid's neck just a little too roughly. "You're forever pestering. Like a dog that keeps trying to mount people's legs."

Sid lets out a choked-off laugh of indignation. "I thought you were gonna be nice!" 

"I am being nice. That's the best I can think of to say about you." But when Sullivan pulls back, he gives Sid's cheek an almost tender caress. "Though perhaps I ought to take you back to bed. I could put you through your paces, see if it's possible to wear you out..."

Sid groans, at Sullivan's words, at the ghost of sensation where his fingers had dug into Sid's skin. "I wouldn't object."

"No, I know you wouldn't. Now finish your tea, if you think you can control yourself for long enough to drink it."

"No promises."

Sid takes another swig of his tea, about to start needling Sullivan again, when there's a knock at the door.

They turn to stare at each other wide-eyed for a moment. Then, instincts kicking in, Sid is up and out of his seat like a shot, shoving the tea onto the coffee table, and pressing himself flat to the wall between the bookcase and the window, out of view. 

Sullivan gets up too. He switches off the wireless and joins Sid beside the window. 

"You don't need to hide," Sid whispers. "It's your house."

"Yes, but I've been ignoring phone calls all day. If it's the same person, it's going to look suspicious if I answer the door now. Anyway, what if they want to come in?"

Sullivan's right. How would he explain why his visitor couldn't come in?

"Thought you said you never invited people 'round?" Sid says in hushed tones. 

"I don't."

"Then who is it?"

"I've no idea."

They stay there, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, Sullivan's pulse thumping just out of time against Sid's arm.

"Reckon it might be one of your neighbours?" Sid asks at length. 

"No. I've seen neither hide nor hair of them since I first moved in."

"Oh yeah?" Sid turns his head to look at Sullivan. "What did you do to offend them?"

"Told Mrs. Hobbs at number twenty-seven that I didn't have time for her to be popping in for tea."

"Bet that made you popular."

A bemused frown. "She did seem rather put-out..."

"I'm not surprised," Sid mutters, shaking his head, warm affection spreading through him for Sullivan and his lack of social skills. 

There is another knock. Louder this time, more persistent. 

"This is ridiculous," hisses Sullivan.

"Keep still," Sid whispers. From his vantage point, he thinks he might be able to catch a glimpse of the doorstep. Heart hammering in his chest, he lifts the edge of the curtains with his two forefingers, and peers out onto the lane beyond.

The first thing that catches his eye is the polished black bonnet of the Wolseley, parked in the road in front of the cottage. 

The police.

Those missed telephone calls must have been from the station after all.

Sid swears under his breath, craning his neck further to get a better look. There is a uniformed officer he doesn't recognise behind the wheel, and then Sergeant Goodfellow comes into view, taking a few paces back from Sullivan's front door, squinting up at the windows of the cottage.

"Who is it?" Sullivan whispers. 

"Goodfellow," Sid whispers back, flattening himself to the wall again.

With a heavenward glance, Sullivan closes his eyes and grits his teeth. 

This is bad news, Sid can feel it. Even if they can avoid being seen, it's going to put Sullivan on the back-foot at work, forcing him to explain his absence, why he wasn't at home...

It occurs to Sid that Sullivan is probably very seldom anywhere else. He is never down the pub - not any of the pubs that Sid frequents, at least, and that's most of them - and Sid never sees him out and about. By his own admission, Sullivan isn't friendly with his neighbours. Not only does Sullivan have no one to invite to his house, he doesn't have anywhere to go, either. 

The ache in Sid's chest returns. Lonely in every regard, then. Even if it is half self-inflicted.

"He'll give up in a minute," Sullivan murmurs. The solid warmth of his shoulder is still pressed to Sid's; his breath coming in short, shallow pants that Sid can feel through his own body. 

Sid is lonely, too. Not like Sullivan, not completely cut-off. He has Lady F, and Father Brown, and Mrs. M, as well as a wide circle of acquaintances and some fair-weather friends he drinks with in The Red Lion. But Sid could count on one hand the number of people whose company he really enjoys, the people he can really let his guard down around. 

Isn't it ridiculous that Sullivan should be one of them?

More loud knocking rings out, only this time from a different direction. It takes Sid a few seconds to work out that Goodfellow must have cut through the garden to try the back door. 

What if Goodfellow tests the handle? Had Sid locked it? Last night, when he'd first arrived, had he been too caught up in the excitement to remember?

Sid takes a deep breath. Holds it. His pulse is thumping in his ears, his stomach churning.

He knows he did. He must have. He wouldn't have been stupid enough to forget something so important.

A cold dread settles in Sid's gut as he waits for the sound of the door handle being pushed, but it never comes. Either way, Goodfellow will have noticed the open window...

Beside him, Sullivan shifts, giving him an anxious look, but neither of them dares to speak. It feels strange, trying to evade the police while he's in Sullivan's house, with Sullivan on the same side for once. 

They stand in silence for what feels like an eternity, keeping still, listening, until there is the slam of a car door and the sound of a motor starting from outside. When the rumble of the engine grows quieter, retreating into the distance, Sullivan turns his head towards him. 

"Gone?" he mouths. 

"I dunno."

Sid pokes his head around the window frame, scanning the lane for any signs of life. Nothing. He glances at Sullivan, giving a slight nod.

"Gone," he confirms. 

Sullivan's shoulders drop as he breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God for that. I thought he was going start trying to pry open the windows next."

"Yeah, so did I, for a minute there..."

They are both whispering still, as though they might be heard even from half a mile away. 

"Do you think he saw any movement from inside?" Sullivan asks. 

Sid shakes his head. "Nah. I don't think so."

"Heard anything?"

"Doubt it. Old workmen's cottages. Thick walls..."

"Even if he didn't, he'll have worked out something was amiss."

"Maybe," Sid concedes.

"They'll be sending out a search party if I don't turn up soon..."

Sullivan is probably right, but it won't do him any good to tell him so.

"You could've been down the shops, for all he knows," Sid points out reasonably. 

"For the last two hours?"

Sid shrugs. "It's your day off. Nothing to say you've got to be in all the time."

"That's the trouble. I'm supposed to be available if there's an emergency."

"Do you think there is one?"

A cautious check of the window, and Sullivan walks back to the settee. "Goodfellow wouldn't come all the way out here over something trivial."

"No, I don't s'pose he would."

"I should have answered the phone. My men need to be able to reach me if something important comes up."

"Well, yeah, but you can't be expected to wait in every second of every day. You've got to have some time to yourself."

"I'm never fully off-duty," Sullivan says curtly, sitting down again. "You know that. It's par for the course if you're an Inspector."

Sid follows, sinking down onto the seat beside him. "Yeah, well, maybe you need to get out of that job of yours..."

"Don't. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm just saying."

"I know what you're saying. I'm telling you not to."

"Yeah, all right, all right..."

The tension is back in Sullivan's shoulders, in his jaw. All the effort of the last two hours wasted.

"What am I going to say if they want to know where I was?" he asks. 

Sid reaches for his cup. He takes a sip of tepid, sugarless tea and grimaces. "Say you were running errands. Or out for a walk." 

"Oh, please. You know what this village is like. Every old lady from here to Standing will know I haven't left the house all morning." 

"Then say you were feeling rough and spent the morning in bed. That's half true, at least. You were feeling something in bed this morning."

If Sid was hoping to diffuse the situation with another crude joke, then he is disappointed, because Sullivan doesn't look amused. 

"We're going to have to start being more careful." 

"We already are being careful."

"Yes," says Sullivan. "That's the trouble."

Sid isn't in the mood for an argument, but he can see that Sullivan is annoyed. His cup is clinking in its saucer where his hands are trembling, the adrenaline rush wearing off. "If he rings again, I'll have to answer it."

And as disappointed as Sid feels, he nods and says, "Yeah, I know."

"What are you going to do if I have to go into work? You can't sneak out of here in broad daylight."

"You'll have to leave me here."

"Leave you here?" Sullivan repeats. 

"Yeah. You go in, I'll let myself out the back door as soon as it gets dark."

"I can't leave you here alone," says Sullivan, frowning at Sid as though the very suggestion is unthinkable.

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"I'm not gonna nick the silverware while you're out, if that's what you're worried about."

"Don't be facetious," Sullivan snaps, agitated.

"I'm not," Sid snaps back, starting to feel a little agitated himself. 

Sullivan sets his cup and saucer down again, shooting Sid a guilty look before he drags a hand over his face. "You're right. You'll have to wait here if I get called in." 

With a deep sigh, Sid says, "So much for going back to bed..."

It isn't that Sid resents Sullivan for having to leave, really it isn't. If there is a genuine emergency, not even Sid would object to Sullivan doing his job. But this palaver has served as a stark reminder that this is how it is, how it will always be. Sullivan's job comes first. Above his private life, above his own happiness, and certainly above Sid.

Sid has known it all along, deep down. Their affair doesn't even factor into it. 

"I didn't want today to end like this, you know," Sullivan says quietly, bringing his hand up around Sid's back to pull him closer. Sid lets him, resting his cheek on Sullivan's shoulder.

"No. I know you didn't..."

"Next time, I'll make sure we're not interrupted. I'll tell the men I'm going away for the weekend."

"Next time," says Sid, going through the motions even as his chest aches. "I'll _take_ you away for the weekend..."

"Oh, yes? Where to, the French Riviera?"

"Was thinking more Margate or Southend..."

"I might take you up on it anyway." Sullivan tilts his head slightly to kiss Sid's forehead.

Sid closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of Sullivan's soap, seeking comfort in the contact. He wants to believe that Sullivan means it, that there will be holidays and next times and a future, but there won't be, not really. He can see it now. 

They sit that way for a long time, neither of them saying a word, the clenching feeling in Sid's chest tightening so much that it's hard to breathe, until the phone rings again.

"Go on," Sid tells him, pulling away. "Answer it."


	22. Chapter 22

Sid sits in the darkening kitchen, looking out of the window, watching the dusk descend. Blues fading to pinks, clouds backlit by the sun as it sinks lower in the sky. 

When Sid had first come to Kembleford, he'd been surprised by the scenery. The open fields and the starry nights, visible without the thick layer of smog that had so often obscured them in London. Perhaps he'd been too young to fully appreciate the beauty of it then, but he can now, even if country living has other drawbacks. 

Sid strains his eyes to check his watch, but finds it is too dark to see. He hasn't switched on the light, not even a lamp, lest the neighbours realise someone is in.

Pushing the chair back as quietly as he can, he steps closer to the window, holding his arm up to the diminishing light. Nearly nine-thirty. Time to pack. 

He moves about the house, ducking in and out of each room, gathering his belongings. His bag, the clothes he left scattered around the bedroom, and, lastly, his toothbrush. He looks at the empty holder. Uneven now, unbalanced.

Sid turns away, fastening his holdall, before carefully picking his way back downstairs, footsteps near silent with years of practice, even in the dark.

Sullivan isn't home yet, and isn't likely to be anytime soon, judging by what he'd said when he'd hung up the phone. 

"Well?" Sid had asked.

"There's been an armed raid on the Post Office. Two injured, one critically. I've got to go." 

"Shit. Yeah. Yeah, 'course."

Sullivan had sprung into action, then. Pulling on his suit jacket and going in search of a tie. 

"I'll take the front door key," he'd told Sid as he shrugged on his overcoat. "You go out the back, lock up, and take the key with you. Or better still, push it under the door, if it'll fit. Don't leave it under the mat, that's a dream for burglars... Well, I don't need to tell _you_ that..."

Sid pulls on his own coat, taking the key just as Sullivan had instructed, and opening the door. The cool night air hits him, and he draws a deep breath, letting it burn his lungs.

The garden is pitch black now and Sid fumbles with the key in the lock.

 _Push it under the door,_ Sullivan's voice replays in his mind. Except the key doesn't quite fit through the gap between the threshold and the door, wood expanded in the heat of the day, so Sid has no option but to pocket it instead, creeping through the garden and out into the entryway beyond. 

He wonders when he will get the chance to return the key to Sullivan.

How will Sullivan want to play it this time? Will he get in touch, or will he leave it up to Sid? Perhaps he will want to cool it off for a few weeks after the events of today. He hadn't seemed angry when he left. Stressed, perhaps. Upset that he'd been remiss in his duties, but not annoyed. 

All the same, Sid wonders whether Sullivan blames him to some extent. For telling him to ignore the phone, for being a distraction, for leading him astray...

Sid cuts through a few of the lanes until he finds his way back onto the main road, just ahead of The Red Lion. Only then does he allow himself to relax a little. If he is seen here, he could convince people he was meeting someone, or else trying to get in a swift pint before closing. He rests on the low surrounding wall of the beer garden to take out his lighter and a pre-rolled cigarette, sparking up before he continues the long walk home.

Does Sullivan blame him for all this? What he'd said in the bathroom earlier, about how he would have been all right if he hadn't met Sid... Had he meant it? Would it have been better for Sullivan if he'd never known what he was missing? 

Sid takes another drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the nicotine helping to calm his nerves. He isn't sure what he has got to be nervous about, but somehow all this has left him feeling rattled. And if it has left him feeling rattled, then God only knows what it has done to Sullivan. 

The gravelled roads give way to grass as Sid presses on. Through the fields, he follows the line of the stream back towards the caravan.

There is so much beauty here, but Sid is starting to wonder whether it is much of a trade-off for the anonymity of the city. A newly-built apartment in a generic block might be safer in some ways than a cottage in a close-knit little village. 

Is that what it comes down to for men like them? A choice between a sense of community and a connection to nature, or enough privacy to live freely? If so, then which would Sullivan choose?

On the horizon, the silhouette of the caravan comes into view, black against the backdrop of the night sky. It is a little brighter here, the field illuminated by a crescent moon. 

Sid takes out his lighter again anyway, flipping it open and using it to navigate his way up the path to the front door. By the dim glow, he lifts down the lantern he's got hanging beside the window, raising the wick and holding the flame under the globe until it catches. Once he can properly see what he's doing, he gets his own keys out, disentangling them from Sullivan's and unlocking the door.

He nearly jumps a foot in the air when a voice comes out of the darkness behind him.

"Sid?"

Sid wheels around just as Father Brown steps into the light.

"Cor, bleedin' hell, you nearly gave me an 'eart attack."

"I'm sorry, Sid. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Well, in future try not sneaking up on people in the dark." Sid pushes the door open, trying to get his breathing under control. "What're you doing out here so late, anyway, Father?"

Father Brown gives him a tight-lipped smile. "Shall we talk inside?"

"Yeah," says Sid. "Yeah, all right. After you."

Inside, Sid sets the lantern down on the table and Father Brown takes a seat on one of the surrounding settees. Sid drops his kit bag onto the bed, conscious of the fact that the Father is watching him.

"D'you want a drink, Father?"

"No, thank you. I won't be staying long." A brief pause, then Father Brown adds: "I've been trying to get hold of you all day."

Sid's blood runs cold. "Have you?"

"Yes. You've been proving very elusive."

"I've been out," Sid says neutrally, waiting to see where the Father is going with all this. 

"Not at work." 

"No. Not at work. It's my day off."

"Yes," says Father Brown. "Lady Felicia mentioned that she'd given you the day off when I spoke to her earlier. Two days, in fact."

"Oh yeah? What were you doing talking to Lady F?"

"I rang Montague Hall to ask after you."

"To ask after _me?"_

"Yes. And when I had no luck there, I called in at The Red Lion, yet no one there seemed to have seen you since Saturday evening, either."

Panic rising in him, Sid says, "Well, I didn't think I needed to report to anyone. I'm not on probation."

A quick glance in the direction of Sid's holdall on the bed, before Father Brown's eyes are back on Sid. "Spent the night away?"

"Hate to break it to you, Father, but I wake up in strange beds on most of my days off."

"I know you do," Father Brown says, shifting in his seat. "Most unusual for you to have the foresight to pack an overnight bag to meet a stranger, though." 

Touché. 

Sid knows Father Brown has already worked something out, but how much he knows and what conclusions he's drawn is anyone's guess, and Sid certainly isn't going to volunteer any information. 

Pulse pounding in his ears, he tries to steady his breathing enough to keep his voice even, as he asks, "Don't take this the wrong way, Father, but why the sudden interest in my love life? You trying to get me into the confessional?"

" _Sid._.." And only the Father could make the gentle use of Sid's name sound like an admonishment.

"What?"

"You know I wouldn't ask without good reason." 

"Go on then, what's the reason?"

Sid braces himself for the moment of confrontation, for the moment where Father Brown finally asks him outright whether he has been sleeping with another man - sleeping with _Sullivan_ \- only Father Brown looks away instead, saying, "There's been a robbery at the Post Office."

Thrown, Sid shakes his head in confusion. "Yeah, I know. I heard."

"Did you?" Father Brown asks, looking up, and Sid realises his mistake. "How did you get to hear about that if you've been away all day?"

"Well, you know what the Kembleford rumour mill is like..."

"Yes," says Father Brown, pursing his lips and then pressing them flat. "I do."

"Can't keep anything quiet in this village..."

A look crosses the Father's face, just briefly. Something solemn. Concerned. "Have you heard that someone was killed?"

That's hardly unusual in Kembleford, but if Father Brown has been so desperate to bring him the news, then it must mean there's something more to it.

"No," Sid says, mouth dry. "Someone we know?" 

"No," Father Brown says quickly. "Well, not very well, at least. The Postmaster, Mr. Hallett."

"I'm sorry to hear that," says Sid. He knows Mr. Hallett as an acquaintance, must have spoken to him a couple of dozen times in passing, when he's gone to send a telegram or collect a parcel, but Sid doesn't really know the man, and he can't muster up much more than a vague feeling of pity for him. "What happened?"

"He attempted to foil the robbery, they think."

"I'm still not sure what all this has got to do with me...?" Sid's brow creases as his confusion deepens. Then it dawns on him. "Hang about, the police don't think I had anything to do with it, do they?"

"No, no. Not as far as I know. And if they did, I'm sure Inspector Sullivan would set them straight on the matter... Just as soon as someone manages to locate him."

"Eh?"

"It would seem the Inspector has been missing all day, too."

Oh, so _that's_ where all this is going... 

Sid doesn't respond, just stands there with adrenaline coursing through his veins, heart racing and sweat pricking under his arms.

But the Father persists. "No one could reach him at home, and I am reliably informed by Sergeant Goodfellow that this sort of behaviour is most out of character for him."

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Sid says, voice strained. 

"I'm sure you're right... Incidentally, if anyone _were_ to suspect you, am I right in thinking you wouldn't be able to provide an alibi for this morning?"

Sid knows there's no point in trying to talk his way out of this one, so he looks away, giving a brief nod of his head.

"But when the Inspector does turn up, he won't ask you to provide an alibi, will he?"

Sid shakes his head. "No."

"Because he already knows where you were."

"Yeah..."

After a long silence, Father Brown asks, "How long has it been going on?"

"Few weeks." Sid stares at the floor, scratching his nose with his thumb.

"Ah."

"How long have you known?"

"I've had my suspicions since you came over for dinner at the presbytery the other week." 

Sid raises his eyebrows. "As long as that?"

"Mm."

"No getting anything past you, is there?"

"I don't know about that. It took me long enough to piece everything together."

Sid looks up at him again. "What gave me away?"

Father Brown tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips. "Your behaviour that night. I've only ever seen you turn down food twice in all the time I've known you, and the first of those was when you caught scarlet fever as a boy."

"Then how did you know I wasn't really ill?" 

"You may be a good liar, Sid, but you never could pull the wool over my eyes," Father Brown says with a rueful smile. 

That much is true. The Father can always tell when Sid is hiding something, even if he isn't sure what. 

"Did you hear us? " Sid asks. "The next morning, when you came out here? Is that how you...?"

"No, but there were other signs. I noticed Mrs. McCarthy's honey was still untouched, alongside an empty bottle of scotch. And despite your best efforts to prevent me from seeing inside, I could tell you had company. There was a blue coat on the floor over by the cupboard. I couldn't be sure it belonged to the Inspector, of course, but it looked very much like his, and you seemed most anxious to conceal the identity of your guest, which suggested the need for a certain degree of secrecy..."

"There really is no getting anything past you." Sid sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hands. "Have you always known? About me, I mean?"

"That your preferences extend to men?"

"Mm."

"Ever since you were a teenager."

"Really? Why didn't you ever...?"

"I thought you'd bring it up when you were ready."

"Then why're you bringing it up now?"

"Because... now I think there might be some urgency."

Well, that sounds ominous.

"Why?" Sid asks, simultaneously wanting to know, and dreading the answer.

"After that morning, I started to think back over previous incidents. The way you'd taken a sudden interest in dropping files off at the police station for me. An off-hand comment Lady Felicia made not long after Sullivan arrived here, about his tendency to avoid her advances. I must confess to wondering about the Inspector's inclinations even then...

"But this Saturday, when Mrs. McCarthy called into the butchers, apparently Inspector Sullivan was in front of her in the queue. He bought four ounces of bacon, some Cumberland sausages, and two eggs, prompting young Archie Fernsley to remark that the Inspector was using up all his rations for the week in one go. Well, Mrs. McCarthy came back to the presbytery speculating about whether or not Sullivan had finally found himself a nice young lady to cook for him - though she wanted it known that she would disapprove if he'd been having any sort of premarital relations first - and of course, when the two of you went missing for the rest of the weekend, it only confirmed my suspicions..."

Sid sinks down onto the bed. "This place..." he mutters. "You can't breathe without everybody getting to hear about it."

"As you said, it's difficult to keep anything quiet in Kembleford..."

"Good job no one else around here's as sharp as you, Father. Otherwise they might've put two-and-two together by now an' all."

"That's what I'm worried about," says Father Brown. "Whatever you may think of the police - and the rest of the village - they're not completely stupid. Sergeant Goodfellow is a clever man. If I've managed to put together the clues..."

"You think he's sussed it out?"

"I think that if you and Sullivan continue to see each other, it will only be a matter of time before _someone_ does."

"You warning me off, Father?"

Father Brown adjusts his glasses. "I'm advising you to be careful."

"I thought we _were_ being careful."

"There's a lot at stake, for both of you, but something like this puts Inspector Sullivan in a particularly difficult position." 

Sid swallows, feels his Adam's apple stick slightly where his throat is dry. "I know that."

"I think perhaps, given the Inspector's situation, it might be wise to proceed with caution."

"If people start getting suspicious, I can back off for a while," says Sid, shrugging. "I was thinking about cooling it off anyway, if he asked..."

A troubled frown appears on the Father's brow. "That wasn't quite what I meant."

Now it's Sid's turn to frown. "What, then?" 

"I don't want anyone getting hurt."

"If you're worried about me getting emotionally involved, you can save your breath. Lady F's already tried giving me that lecture."

"Sid. Yours aren't the only feelings to consider here." 

Sid stares at him for a second, taken aback. "You're worried about _Sullivan_ getting too involved?"

"Inspector Sullivan is risking his career and reputation, it's not a decision I imagine he'd make lightly. I think it's very possible that he is taking this affair a little more seriously than you are."

Sid laughs. A cold, hollow sound. "You think I'm messing him around?" 

"No, I don't think that, but I would urge you to think long and hard about your intentions."

" _My_ intentions?" Sid scoffs. 

"I know you mean well, Sid, but that isn't to say that you don't hurt people accidentally sometimes."

And Sid knows the Father is well-meaning, that his words are born of genuine concern, but that doesn't take the sting out of them. After all, if Father Brown has so little faith in him, then what hope is there for anyone else? Where must he be in Mrs. M's estimation? Or, worse still, in Sullivan's? Does everyone hold Sid in such low regard?

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not the one you need to be worrying about," Sid snaps, feeling more than a little wounded. "'Cause if Sullivan's come over all sentimental, then trust me, he's keeping his feelings _very_ well-hidden."

And this time Father Brown is the one who seems to be taken aback.

"Sid..." he begins gently, standing. He reaches out, as if to put a hand on Sid's shoulder, but Sid stands up too, moving away. 

"Right, well, I think you've said your piece now."

"Sid-"

"If that's all you wanted, Father, it's late, and I'm tired." Sid lifts the catch on the door, swinging it open in one, jerky, agitated movement. "So if you wouldn't mind..."

"Of course." Father Brown takes a few steps towards it. "Sid, I'm sorry if I've upset you. I had no idea you felt-"

"It's fine," Sid interrupts, crowding the Father until he is forced to step down onto the crate outside. "You've probably got a point."

Father Brown goes to say something more, but Sid closes the door before he gets the chance to, locks it, propping his full weight against it, either to keep the world out or to hold himself up, he isn't sure.

He takes a deep breath, and for the first time, he allows himself feel the pain he's been keeping bottled up all day.


End file.
